LIBRARY   ^ 

JNIV.R-^ITY   OF 
C-  L.FORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


?G 


THE   RIVER   OF   LIFE 

AND   OTHER  STORIES 

BY 

ALEXANDER    KUPRIN 


TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    RUSSIAN    BY 
S.    KOTELIANSKY    AND   J.    M.    MURRY 


JOHN   W.   LUGE   AND   COMPANY 

BOSTON 

1916 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

Alexander  Kuprin  was  born  in  1870.  He 
attended  the  Cadet  School  and  the  Military 
College  at  Moscow,  and  entered  the  Russian 
Army  as  a  lieutenant  in  1890.  Seven  years 
later  he  resigned  his  commission  to  devote  him- 
self to  literature. 

He  achieved  fame  by  a  novel,  The  Duel,  in 
which  he  described  with  a  ruthless  realism  the 
army  life  in  a  garrison  town  upon  the  Western 
Frontier.  The  book,  which  in  reality  falls  into 
line  with  the  rest  of  his  work  as  a  severely 
objective  presentation  of  a  life  which  he  has 
found  vivid  and  rich,  was,  fortunately  for  his 
success,  interpreted  as  an ,  indictment  of  the 
Russian  Army  and  the  ill-starred  Manchurian 
campaign.  He  was  accepted  by  the  propa- 
gandists as  one  of  themselves,  and  though 
he  protested  vigorously  against  his  unsought 
reputation,  his  position  was  thenceforward 
assured. 

But  the  interest  of  Kuprin' s  talent  is  inde- 
pendent of  the  accidents  of  his  material.  He  is 
an  artist  who  has  found  life  wide  and  rich  and 
inexhaustible.     He  has  been  fascinated  by  the 


vi  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

reality  itself  rather  than  by  the  problems  with 
which  it  confronts  a  differently  sensitive  mind. 
Therefore  he  has  not  held  himself  aloof,  but 
plunged  into  the  riotous  waters  of  the  River  of 
Life.  He  has  swum  with  the  stream  and  battled 
against  it  as  the  mood  turned  in  him  ;  and  he 
has  emerged  with  stories  of  the  joy  he  has  found 
in  his  own  eager  acceptance.  Thus  Kuprin  is 
alive  as  none  of  his  contemporaries  is  alive,  and 
his  stories  are  stories  told  for  the  delight  of  the 
telling  and  of  the  tale.  They  may  not  be  pro- 
found with  the  secrets  of  the  universe  ;  but  they 
are,  within  their  compass,  shaped  by  the  perfect 
art  of  one  to  whom  the  telling  of  a  story  of  life 
is  an  exercise  of  his  whole  being  in  complete 
harmony  with  the  act  of  life  itself. 

J.  M.  M. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE  ....        1 


II 
CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  .  .  .  .37 

III 
THE  OUTRAGE 99 

IV 

THE  WITCH 127 


I 

THE   RIVER   OF   LIFE 


THE   RIVER   OF   LIFE 

I 

The  landlady's  room  in  the  '  Serbia.'  Yellow 
wallpaper ;  two  windows  with  dirty  muslin 
curtains  ;  between  them  an  oval  squinting 
mirror,  stuck  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees, 
reflects  a  painted  floor  and  chair  legs ;  on  the 
лvindoлv-sills  dusty,  pimply  cactuses  ;  a  cage 
\vith  a  canary  hangs  from  the  ceiling.  The  room 
is  partitioned  off  by  red  screens  of  printed 
calico  :  the  smaller  part  on  the  left  is  the  bed- 
room of  the  landlady  and  her  children  ;  that  on 
the  right  is  blocked  up  with  varied  odds  and 
ends  of  furniture — bedridden,  rickety,  and  lame. 
In  the  corners  all  kinds  of  rubbish  are  in  chaotic 
cobwebbed  heaps  :  a  sextant  in  a  ginger  leather 
case,  and  with  it  a  tripod  and  a  chain,  some  old 
trunks  and  boxes,  a  guitar  without  strings, 
hunting  boots,  a  sewing  machine,  a  '  Monopan  ' 
musical  box,  a  camera,  about  five  lamps,  piles 
of  books,  dresses,  bundles  of  linen,  and  a  great 
many  things  besides.  All  these  things  had  been 
detained  at  various  times  by  the  landlady  for 
rent  unpaid,  or  left  behind  by  runaway  lodgers. 
You  cannot  move  in  the  room  because  of  them. 
The  '  Serbia '  is  a  third-rate  hotel.  Per- 
manent  lodgers   are   a   rarity,   and   those   are 


4  THE  RTVER  OF  LIFE 

prostitutes.  Mostly  they  are  casual  passengers 
who  float  up  to  town  on  the  Dnieper:  small 
farmers,  Jewish  commission  agents,  distant 
provincials,  pilgrims,  and  village  priests  who 
come  to  town  to  inform,  or  are  returning  home 
when  the  information  has  been  lodged.  Rooms 
in  the  '  Serbia '  are  also  occupied  by  couples 
from  the  town  for  the  night  or  a  few  days. 

Spring.  About  three  in  the  afternoon.  The 
curtains  of  the  open  windows  stir  gently,  and 
the  room  smells  of  kerosene  and  baked  cabbage. 
It  is  the  landlady  warming  up  on  her  «tove  a 
bigoss  a  la  Polonaise  of  cabbage,  pork  fat,  and 
sausage,  with  a  great  deal  of  pepper  and  bay 
leaves.  She  is  a  widoлv  between  thirty-six  and 
forty,  a  strong,  quick,  good-looking  woman. 
The  hair  that  she  wears  in  curls  over  her  fore- 
head has  a  strong  tinge  of  grey ;  but  her  face 
is  fresh,  her  big  sensual  mouth  red,  and  her 
young  dark  eyes  moist  and  playfully  sly.  Her 
name  is  Anna  Friedrichovna.  She  is  half 
German,  half  Pole,  and  comes  from  the  Baltic 
Provinces ;  but  her  close  friends  call  her 
Friedrich  simply,  which  suits  her  determined 
character  better.  She  is  quick-tempered,  scolds 
and  talks  bawdy.  Sometimes  she  fights  with 
her  porters  and  the  lodgers  who  have  been  on 
the  spree ;  she  drinks  as  well  as  any  man,  and 
has  a  mad  passion  for  dancing.  She  changes 
from  abuse  to  laughing  in  a  second.  She  has 
but  small  respect  for  the  law,  receives  lodgers 
without  passports,  and  with  her  own  hands, 
as  she  says,  '  chucks  into  the  street '  those  who 


THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE  5 

don't  pay  up — that  is,  she  unlocks  his  door  while 
he  is  out,  and  puts  all  his  things  in  the  passage 
or  on  the  stairs,  and  sometimes  in  her  own  room. 
The  police  are  friendly  with  her  for  her  hospi- 
tality, her  cheerful  character,  and  particularly 
for  the  gay,  easy,  unceremonious,  disinterested 
complaisance  with  which  she  responds  to  man's 
passing  emotions. 

She  has  four  children.  The  two  eldest, 
Romka  and  Alychka,  have  not  yet  come  back 
from  school,  and  the  younger,  Adka,  seven,  and 
Edka,  five,  strong  brats  with  cheeks  mottled 
with  mud,  blotches,  tear-stains,  and  the  sunburn 
of  early  spring,  are  always  to  be  found  near  their 
mother.  Both  of  them  hold  on  to  the  table  leg 
and  beg.  They  are  perpetually  hungry,  because 
their  mother  does  not  pay  much  attention  to 
food  ;  they  eat  anyhow,  at  different  times,  send- 
ing into  a  little  general  shop  for  anything  they 
want.  Sticking  out  his  lips  in  a  circle,  frown- 
ing, and  looking  out  under  his  forehead,  Adka 
roars  in  a  loud  bass  :  '  That 's  what  you  're 
like.  You  won't  give  me  a  taste.'  '  Let  me 
try,'  Edka  speaks  through  his  nose,  scratching 
his  calf  with  his  bare  foot. 

At  the  table  by  the  window  sits  Lieutenant 
Valerian  Ivanovich  Tchijhevich  of  the  Army 
Reserve.  Before  him  is  the  register,  in  which 
he  enters  the  lodgers'  passports.  But  after  yes- 
terday's affair  the  work  goes  badly  ;  the  letters 
wave  about  and  crawl  алуау.  His  trembling 
fingers  quarrel  with  the  pen.  There  is  a 
roaring  in  his  ears  like  the  telegraph  poles  in 


6  THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE 

autumn.  At  times  it  seems  to  him  that  his 
head  is  beginning  to  swell,  to  swell  .  .  .  and 
the  table,  the  book,  the  inkstand,  and  the 
lieutenant's  hand  go  terribly  far  away  and  be- 
come quite  tiny.  Then  again  the  book  comes 
up  to  his  very  eyes,  the  inkstand  grows  and 
repeats  itself,  and  his  head  grows  small,  turns  to 
queer  strange  sizes. 

Lieutenant  Tchijhevich's  appearance  speaks 
of  former  beauty  and  lost  position  ;  his  black 
hair  bristles,  and  a  bald  patch  shows  on  the  nape 
of  his  neck.  His  beard  is  fashionably  trimmed 
to  a  sharp  point.  His  face  is  lean,  dirty,  pale, 
dissipated.  On  it  is,  as  it  were  written,  the  full 
history  of  the  lieutenant's  obvious  weaknesses 
and  secret  diseases. 

His  situation  in  the  '  Serbia '  is  complicated. 
He  goes  to  the  magistrates  on  Anna  Friedrich- 
ovna's  behalf.  He  hears  the  children's  lessons 
and  teaches  them  deportment,  keeps  the  house 
register,  makes  out  the  lodgers'  accounts,  reads 
the  newspaper  aloud  in  the  morning  and  talks 
of  politics.  He  usually  sleeps  in  one  of  the 
vacant  rooms  and,  in  case  of  an  influx  of  guests, 
in  the  passage  on  an  ancient  sofa,  whose  springs 
and  stuffing  stick  out  together.  When  this 
happens  the  lieutenant  carefully  hangs  all  his 
property  on  nails  above  the  sofa  :  his  overcoat, 
cap,  his  morning  coat,  shiny  with  age  and  white 
in  the  seams  but  tolerably  clean,  a  '  Monopole  ' 
paper  collar,  an  officer's  cap  with  a  blue  band  ; 
but  he  puts  his  notebook  and  his  handkerchief 
with  some  one  else's  initials  under  his  pillow. 


THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE  7 

The  widow  keeps  her  heutenant  under  her 
thumb.  '  Marry  me  and  I  '11  do  anything  for 
you,'  she  promises.  '  Full  equipment,  all  the 
linen  you  want,  a  fine  pair  of  boots  and  goloshes 
as  well.  You  '11  have  everything,  and  on 
holidays  I  '11  let  you  wear  my  late  husband's 
watch  with  the  chain.'  But  the  lieutenant  is 
still  thinking  about  it.  He  values  his  freedom, 
and  sets  high  store  by  his  former  dignity  as  an 
officer.  However,  he  is  wearing  out  some  of 
the  older  portions  of  the  deceased's  linen. 


THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE 


II 

From  time  to  time  storms  break  out  in  the  land- 
lady's room.  Sometimes  it  happens  that  the 
lieutenant,  with  the  assistance  of  his  pupil 
Romka,  sells  a  heap  of  somebody  else's  books 
to  a  second-hand  dealer.  Sometimes  he  takes 
advantage  of  the  landlady's  absence  to  intercept 
the  payment  for  a  room  by  day.  Or  he  secretly 
begins  to  have  playful  relations  with  the  servant- 
maid.  Just  the  other  day  the  lieutenant 
abused  Anna  Friedrichovna's  credit  in  the  public- 
house  over  the  way.  This  came  to  light,  and 
a  quarrel  raged,  with  abuse  and  a  fight  in  the 
corridor.  The  doors  of  all  the  rooms  opened, 
and  men  and  women  poked  their  heads  out  in 
curiosity.  Anna  Friedrichovna  shouted  so  loud 
that  she  was  heard  in  the  street : 

'  You  get  out  of  here,  you  blackguard,  get 
out,  you  tramp !  I  've  spent  on  you  every 
penny  of  the  money  I  've  earned  by  sweating 
blood.  You  fill  your  belly  with  the  farthings  I 
sweat  for  my  children  ! ' 

*  You  fill  your  belly  with  our  farthings,' 
squalled  the  schoolboy  Romka,  making  faces  at 
him  from  behind  his  mother's  skirt. 

'You  fill  your  belly!'  Adka  and  Edka 
accompanied  from  a  distance. 

Arseny  the  porter,  in  stony  silence,  pressed 


THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE  9 

his  chest  against  the  Heutenant.  From  room 
No.  9,  the  vahant  possessor  of  a  magnificently 
parted  black  beard  leaned  out  to  his  waist  in 
his  underclothes,  with  a  round  hat  for  some 
reason  perched  on  his  head,  and  resolutely  gave 
his  advice  : 

'  Arseny,  give  him  one  between  the  eyes.' 

Thus  the  lieutenant  was  driven  to  the  stairs  ; 
but  there  was  a  broad  window  opening  on  to 
these  very  stairs  from  the  corridor.  Anna 
Friedrichovna  hung  out  of  it  and  still  went  on 
shouting  after  the  lieutenant : 

'  You  dirty  beast  .  .  .  you  murderer  .  .  . 
scoundrel  .  .  .  Kiev  gutter-sweeping  ! ' 

'  Gutter-sweeping  ! '  '  Gutter-sweeping  ! '  the 
brats  in  the  corridor  strained  their  voices, 
shouting. 

'  Don't  come  eating  here  any  more  !  Take 
your  filthy  things  away  with  you.  Take  them. 
Take  them  1 ' 

The  things  the  lieutenant  had  left  upstairs 
in  his  haste  descended  on  him  :  a  stick,  his 
paper  collar,  and  his  notebook.  The  lieutenant 
halted  on  the  bottom  stair,  raised  his  head,  and 
brandished  his  fist.  His  face  was  pale,  a  bruise 
showed  red  beneath  his  left  eye. 

'  You  just  wait,  you  scum.  I  tell  everything 
in  the  proper  quarter.  Ah  !  ah  .  .  .  They  're  a 
lot  of  pimps,  robbing  the  lodgers  !  ' 

'  You  just  sling  your  hook  while  you  've  got 
a  whole  skin,'  said  Arseny  sternly,  pressing  on 
the  lieutenant  from  behind  and  pushing  him 
with  his  shoulder. 


10  THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE 

'  Get  away,  you  swine  !  You've  not  the  right 
to  lay  a  finger  on  an  officer,'  the  Heutenant 
proudly  exclaimed.  '  I  know  about  everything  ! 
You  let  people  in  here  without  passports  !  You 
receive — you  receive  stolen  goods.  .  .  .  You 
keep  a  broth ' 

At  this  point  Arseny  seized  the  lieutenant 
adroitly  from  behind.  The  door  slammed  with 
a  shattering  noise.  The  two  men  rolled  out  into 
the  street  together  like  a  ball,  and  thence  came 
an  angry  :    '  Brothel  !  ' 

This  morning,  as  it  had  always  happened  be- 
fore, Lieutenant  Tchijhevich  came  back  penitent, 
with  a  bouquet  of  lilac  torn  out  of  somebody's 
garden.  His  face  was  weary.  A  dim  blue 
surrounded  his  hollow  eyes.  His  forehead  was 
yellow,  his  clothes  unbrushed,  and  there  were 
feathers  in  his  hair.  The  reconciliation  goes 
slowly.  Anna  Friedrichovna  hasn't  yet  had  her 
fill  of  her  lover's  submissive  look  and  repentant 
words.  Besides,  she  is  a  little  jealous  of  the 
three  nights  her  Valerian  has  passed,  she  knows 
not  where. 

'  Anna,  darling,  .  .  .  where  .  .  .'  the  lieu- 
tenant began  in  an  extraordinarily  meek  and 
tender  falsetto,  slightly  tremulous  even. 

'  Wha-at !  Who  's  Anna  darling,  I  'd  like 
to  know,'  the  landlady  contemptuously  cut  him 
short.  '  I  'm  not  Anna  darling  to  any  scum  of 
a  road  sweeper  ! ' 

'  But  I  only  wanted  to  ask  what  address  I 
was  to  write  for  "  Praskovia  Uvertiesheva,  34 
years  old,"  there  's  nothing  Avritten  down  here.' 


THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE  11 

'  Put  her  down  at  the  Rag-market,  and  put 
yourself  there,  too.  You  're  a  pretty  pair.  Or 
put  yourself  in  a  doss-house.' 

'  Dirty  beast,'  thinks  the  lieutenant,  but  he 
only  gives  a  deep,  submissive  sigh.  '  You  're 
very  nervous  to-day,  Anna,  darling  ! ' 

'  Nervous  !  Whatever  I  am,  I  know  I  'm  an 
honest,  hard-working  woman.  .  .  .  Get  out  of 
the  way,  you  bastards,'  she  shouts  at  the 
children,  and  suddenly, '  Shlop,  shlop ' — two  well- 
aimed  smacks  with  the  spoon  come  down  on 
Adka's  and  Edka's  foreheads.  The  boys  begin 
to  snivel. 

'  There  's  a  curse  on  my  business,  and  on  me,' 
the  landlady  growls  angrily.  '  When  I  lived 
with  my  husband  I  never  had  any  sorrows. 
Now,  all  the  porters  are  drunkards,  and  all 
the  maids  are  thieves.  Sh  !  you  cursed  brats  ! 
.  .  .  That  Proska  .  .  ,  she  hasn't  been  here 
two  days  when  she  steals  the  stockings  from 
the  girl  in  No.  12.  Other  people  go  off  to 
pubs  with  other  people's  money,  and  never  do 
a  stroke.  .  .  .' 

The  lieutenant  knew  perfectly  who  Anna 
Friedrichovna  was  speaking  about,  but  he  main- 
tained a  concentrated  silence.  The  smell  of  the 
bigoss  inspired  him  with  some  faint  hopes.  Then 
the  door  opened  and  Arseny  the  porter  entered 
without  taking  off  his  hat  with  the  three  gold 
braids.  He  looks  like  an  Albino  eunuch,  and 
his  dirty  face  is  pitted.  This  is  at  least  the 
fortieth  time  he  has  had  this  place  with  Anna 
Friedrichovna.     He  keeps  it  until  the  first  fit 


12  THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE 

of  drinking,  when  the  landlady  herself  beats  him 
and  puts  him  into  the  streets,  first  having  taken 
away  the  symbol  of  his  authority,  his  three- 
braided  cap. 

Then  Arseny  puts  a  white  Caucasian  fur  hat 
on  his  head  and  a  dark  blue  pince-nez  on  his 
nose,  and  swaggers  in  the  public-house  opposite 
until  he  's  drunk  everything  on  him  away,  and 
at  the  end  of  his  spree  he  will  cry  on  the  bosom 
of  the  indifferent  waiter  about  his  hopeless  love 
for  Friedrich  and  threaten  to  murder  Lieutenant 
Tchijhevich.  When  he  sobers  down  he  comes 
to  the  '  Serbia '  and  falls  at  his  landlady's  feet. 
And  she  takes  him  back  again,  because  the 
porter  who  succeeded  Arseny  had  already 
managed  in  this  short  time  to  steal  from  her,  to 
get  drunk,  to  make  a  row  and  be  taken  off  to 
the  police  station. 

'  You  .  .  .  have  you  come  from  the 
steamer  ?  '  Anna  Friedrichovna  asked. 

'  Yes.  I  've  brought  half  a  dozen  pilgrims. 
It  was  a  job  to  get  'em  away  from  Jacob — the 
"  Commercial."  He  was  just  leading  them  off, 
when  I  comes  up  to  him  and  says,  "  It 's  all 
the  same  to  me,  I  says,  go  wherever  you  like. 
But  as  there  are  people  who  don't  know  these 
places,  and  I  'm  very  sorry  for  you,  I  tell  you 
straight  you  'd  better  not  go  with  that  man.  In 
their  hotel  last  week  they  put  some  powder  in  a 
pilgrim's  food  and  robbed  him."  So  I  got  them 
away.  Afterwards  Jacob  shook  his  fist  at  me  in 
the  distance,  and  called  out :  *'  You  just  wait, 
Arseny.     I  '11  get  you.     You  won't  get  away 


THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE  13 

from  me  !  "  But  when  that  happens,  I  '11  do 
it  myself.  .  .  .' 

'  All  right,'  the  landlady  interrupted.  '  I 
don't  care  tAvopence  about  your  Jacob.  What 
price  did  you  fix  ?  ' 

'  Thirty  kopeks.  I  did  my  best,  but  I  couldn't 
make  them  give  more.' 

'You  fool.  You  can't  do  anything.  .  .  .  Give 
them  No.  2.' 

'  All  in  the  one  room  ?  ' 

'  You  fool.  Two  rooms,  each.  ...  Of  course, 
all  in  one  room.  Bring  three  mattresses  from 
the  old  ones,  and  tell  them  that  they  're  not  to 
lie  on  the  sofa.  These  pilgrims  have  always 
got  bugs.     Get  along ! ' 

When  he  had  gone  the  lieutenant  said  in 
a  tender  and  solicitous  undertone :  '  Anna, 
darling,  I  wonder  why  you  allow  him  to  enter 
the  room  in  his  hat.  It  is  disrespectful  to 
you,  both  as  a  lady  and  proprietress.  And 
then — consider  my  position.  I  'm  an  officer  in 
Reserve,  and  he  is  a  private.  It 's  rather 
awkward.' 

But  Anna  Friedrichovna  leapt  upon  him  in 
fresh  exasperation :  '  Don't  you  poke  your 
nose  in  where  it 's  not  wanted.  Of-ficer  in- 
deed !  There  are  plenty  of  officers  like  you 
spending  the  night  in  a  shelter.  Arseny  's  a 
working  man.  He  earns  his  bread  .  .  .  not 
like  .  .  .  Get  away,  you  lazy  brats,  take  your 
hands  away  ! ' 

'  Ye-es,  but  give  us  something  to  eat,'  roars 
Adka. 


14  THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE 

'  Give  us  something  to  eat.  .  .  .' 

Meanwhile  the  bigoss  is  ready.  Anna 
Friedrichovna  clatters  the  dishes  on  the  table. 
The  lieutenant  keeps  his  head  busily  down  over 
the  register.  He  is  completely  absorbed  in  his 
business. 

'  Well,  sit  down,'  the  landlady  abruptly 
invited  him. 

'  No  thanks,  Anna,  darling.  Eat,  your- 
self. I  'm  not  very  keen,'  Tchijhevich  said, 
without  turning  round,  in  a  stifled  voice,  loudly 
swallowing. 

'  You  do  what  you  are  told.  .  .  .  He  's  giving 
himself  airs,  too.  .  .  .  Come  on  ! ' 

'  Immediately,  this  very  minute.  I  '11  just 
finish  the  last  page.  "  The  certificate  issued  by 
the  Bilden  Rural  District  Council  ...  of  the 
province  .  .  .  number  2039.  .  .  ."  Ready.' 
The  lieutenant  rose  and  rubbed  his  hands. 
'  I  love  working.' 

'  H'm.  You  call  that  work,'  the  landlady 
snorted  in  disdain.     '  Sit  down.' 

'  Anna,  darling,  just  one  .  .  .  little  .  .  .' 

'  You  can  manage  \vithout.' 

But  since  peace  is  already  almost  restored, 
Anna  Friedrichovna  takes  a  small,  fat-bodied 
cut-glass  decanter  from  the  cupboard,  out  of 
which  the  deceased's  father  used  to  drink. 
Adka  spreads  his  cabbage  all  over  his  plate  and 
teases  his  brother  because  he  has  more.  Edka 
is  upset  and  screams  : 

'  Adka 's  got  more.     You  gave  him ' 

Shlop  !     Edka  gets  a  sounding  smack  with 


THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE  15 

the  spoon  upon  his  forehead.  Immediately 
Anna  Friedrichovna  continues  the  conversation 
as  if  nothing  had  happened  : 

'  Tell  us  another  of  your  lies.  I  bet  you  were 
with  some  woman.' 

'  Anna,  darling  ! '  the  lieutenant  exclaimed 
reproachfully.  Then  he  stopped  eating  and 
pressed  his  hands — in  one  of  which  was  a  fork 
with  a  piece  of  sausage — to  his  chest.  '  I  .  .  . 
oh,  how  little  you  know  me.  I  'd  rather  have 
my  head  cut  off  than  let  such  a  thing  happen. 
When  I  went  away  that  time,  I  felt  so  bitter,  so 
hard  !  I  just  walked  in  the  street,  and  you  can 
imagine,  I  was  drowned  in  tears.  My  God,'  I 
thought,  '  and  I  've  let  myself  insult  that  woman 
— the  one  woman  whom  I  love  sacredly, 
madly.  .  .  .' 

'  That 's  a  pretty  story,'  put  in  the  landlady, 
gratified,  but  still  somewhat  suspicious. 

'  You  don't  believe  me,'  the  lieutenant  replied 
in  a  quiet,  deep,  tragic  voice.  '  Well,  I  've 
deserved  it.  Every  night  I  came  to  your 
window  and  prayed  for  you  in  my  soul.'  The 
lieutenant  instantly  tipped  the  glass  into  his 
mouth,  took  a  bite,  and  went  on  with  his  mouth 
full  and  his  eyes  watering  : 

'  I  was  thinking  that  if  a  fire  were  to  break 
out  suddenly  or  murderers  attack,  I  would  prove 
to  you  then.  .  .  .  I  'd  have  given  my  life  joy- 
fully. Alas  !  my  life  is  short  without  that. 
My  days  are  numbered.  .  .  .' 

Meanwhile  the  landlady  fumbled  in  her  purse. 

'  Go  on  ! '   she  replied,  coquettishly.     '  Adka, 


16  THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE 

here 's  the  money.  Run  to  Vasily  Vasiheh's 
and  get  a  bottle  of  beer.  But  tell  him  it 's 
got  to  be  fresh.     Quick  !  ' 

Breakfast  is  finished,  the  bigoss  eaten,  and  the 
beer  all  drunk,  when  Romka,  the  depraved 
member  of  the  preparatory  class  of  the  gym- 
nasium, appears  covered  in  chalk  and  ink.  Still 
standing  at  the  door  he  pouts  and  looks  angrily. 
Then  he  flings  his  satchel  down  on  the  floor  and 
begins  to  howl : 

'  There !  .  .  .  you  've  been  and  eaten  every- 
thing without  me.     I  'm  as  hungry  as  a  do-og.' 

'  I  've  got  some  more.  But  I  shan't  give  you 
any,'  Adka  teases  him,  showing  him  his  plate 
across  the  room. 

'  There  !  .  .  .  it 's  a  dirty  trick,'  Romka  drags 
out  the  words.     '  Mother,  tell  Adka^ — ' 

'  Be  quiet ! '  Anna  Friedrichovna  cries  in  a 
piercing  voice.  '  Dawdle  till  it 's  dark,  why 
don't  you  ?  Take  twopence.  Buy  yourself 
some  sausage.     That  '11  do  for  you.' 

'  Ye-es,  twopence !  You  and  Valerian 
Ivanich  eat  bigoss,  and  you  make  me  go  to 
school.     I  'm  just  like  a  do-o-o-g.' 

'  Get  out ! '  Anna  Friedrichovna  shouts  in  a 
terrible  voice,  and  Romka  precipitately  dis- 
appears. Still  he  managed  to  pick  his  satchel 
up  from  the  floor.  A  thought  had  suddenly 
come  into  his  head.  He  would  go  and  sell  his 
books  in  the  Rag-market.  In  the  doorway  he 
ran  into  his  elder  sister  Alychka,  and  seized  the 
opportunity  to  pinch  her  arm  very  hard. 
Alychka  entered  grumbling  aloud  : 


THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE  17 

'  Mamma  !   tell  Romka  not  to  pinch.' 

She  is  a  handsome  girl  of  thirteen,  beginning 
to  develop  early,  a  swarthy,  olive  brunette,  with 
beautiful  dark  eyes,  which  are  not  at  all  childish. 
Her  lips  are  red,  full  and  shining,  and  on  her 
upper  lip,  which  is  lightly  covered  лvith  a  fine 
black  down,  there  are  two  delightful  moles. 
She  is  a  general  favourite  in  the  house.  The 
men  give  her  chocolates,  often  invite  her  into 
their  rooms,  kiss  her  and  say  impudent  things 
to  her.  She  knows  as  much  as  any  grown-up, 
but  in  these  cases  she  never  blushes,  but  just 
casts  down  her  long  black  eyelashes  which 
throw  a  blue  shade  on  her  amber  cheeks, 
and  smiles  with  a  strange,  modest,  tender  yet 
voluptuous,  and  somehow  expectant  smile.  Her 
best  friend  is  the  woman  Eugenia  who  lives  in 
No.  12 — a  quiet  girl,  punctual  in  paying  for  her 
room,  a  stout  blonde,  who  is  kept  by  a  timber 
merchant,  but  on  her  free  days  invites  her 
cavaliers  from  the  street.  Anna  Friedrich- 
ovna  holds  her  in  high  esteem,  and  says  of  her  : 
'  Well,  what  does  it  matter  if  Eugenia  is  not 
quite  respectable,  she  's  an  independent  woman 
anyhow.' 

Seeing  that  breakfast  is  over  Alychka  gives 
one  of  her  constrained  smiles  and  says  aloud  in 
her  thin  voice,  rather  theatrically  :  "Ah  !  you  've 
finished  already.  I  'm  too  late.  Mamma  !  may 
I  go  to  Eugenia  Nicolaievna  ?  ' 

'  Go  wherever  you  like  ! ' 

'  Л1егсг  !  ' 

She   goes   away.     After   breakfast   complete 


18  THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE 

peace  reigns.  The  lieutenant  whispers  the 
most  ardent  words  into  the  widow's  ear,  and 
presses  her  generous  knee  under  the  table. 
Flushing  with  the  food  and  beer,  she  presses 
her  shoulder  close  to  him,  then  pushes  him 
away  and  sighs  with  nervous  laughter. 

'  Yes,  Valerian.  You  're  shameless.  The 
children  ! ' 

Adka  and  Edka  look  at  them,  with  their 
fingers  in  their  mouths  and  their  eyes  wide  open. 
Their  mother  suddenly  springs  upon  them. 

'  Go  for  a  run,  you  ruffians.  Sitting  there  like 
dummies  in  a  museum.     Quick  march  ! ' 

'  But  I  don't  want  to,'  roars  Adka. 

'  I  don'  wan' ' 

'  I  '11  teach  you  "  Don't  want  to."  A  half- 
penny for  candy,  and  out  you  go.' 

She  locks  the  door  after  them,  sits  on  the 
lieutenant's  knee,  and  they  begin  to  kiss, 

'  You  're  not  cross,  my  treasure  ?  '  the  lieu- 
tenant Avhispers  in  her  ear. 

But  there  is  a  knock  at  the  door.  They  have 
to  open.  The  new  chambermaid  enters,  a  tall, 
gloomy  woman  with  one  eye,  and  says  hoarsely, 
with  a  ferocious  look : 

'  No.  12  wants  a  samovar,  some  tea,  and  some 
sugar.' 

Anna  Friedrichovna  impatiently  gives  out 
Avhat  is  wanted.  The  lieutenant  says  languidly, 
stretched  on  the  sofa : 

'  I  would  like  to  rest  a  bit,  Anna,  dear.  Isn't 
there  a  room  empty  ?  People  are  always  knock- 
ing about  here.' 

There  is  only  one  room  empty.  No.  5,  and 


THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE  19 

there  they  go.  Their  room  is  long,  narrow, 
and  dark,  hke  a  skittle-alley,  with  one  window. 
A  bed,  a  chest  of  drawers,  a  blistered  brown 
washstand,  and  a  commode  are  all  its  furniture. 
The  landlady  and  the  lieutenant  once  more 
begin  to  kiss  ;  and  they  moan  like  doves  on  the 
roof  in  springtime. 

'  Anna,  darling,  if  you  love  me,  send  for  a 
packet  of  ten  "  Cigarettes  Plaisir,"  six  kopeks,' 
says  the  lieutenant  coaxingly,  while  he 
undresses. 

'  Later ' 


The  spring  evening  darkens  quickly,  and  it  is 
already  night.  Through  the  window  comes  the 
whistling  of  the  steamers  on  the  Dnieper,  and 
with  it  creeps  a  faint  smell  of  hay,  dust,  lilac 
and  warm  stone.  The  water  falls  into  the  wash- 
stand,  dripping  regularly.  There  is  another 
knock. 

'  Who 's  there  ?  What  the  devil  are  you 
prowling  about  for  ?  '  cries  Anna  Friedrichovna 
awakened.  She  jumps  barefoot  from  the  bed 
and  angrily  opens  the  door.  '  Well,  what  do 
you  want  ?  ' 

Lieutenant  Tchijhevich  modestly  pulls  the 
blanket  over  his  head. 

'  A  student  wants  a  room,'  Arseny  says 
behind  the  door  in  a  stage  whisper. 

'  What  student  ?  Tell  him  there  's  only  one 
room,  and  that 's  two  roubles.  Is  he  alone,  or 
with  a  woman  ?  ' 

'  Alone.' 


20  THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE 

'  Tell  him  then :  passport  and  money  in 
advance.     I  know  these  students.' 

The  lieutenant  dressed  hurriedly.  From 
habit  he  takes  ten  seconds  over  his  toilette. 
Anna  Friedrichovna  tidies  the  bed  quickly  and 
cleverly.     Arseny  returns. 

'  He 's  paid  in  advance,'  he  said  gloomily. 
'  And  here  's  the  passport.' 

The  landlady  went  out  into  the  corridor.  Her 
hair  was  dishevelled  and  a  fringe  was  sticking 
to  her  forehead.  The  folds  of  the  pillow  were 
imprinted  on  her  crimson  cheeks.  Her  eyes 
were  unnaturally  brilliant.  The  lieutenant, 
under  cover  of  her  back,  slipped  into  the  land- 
lady's room  as  noiseless  as  a  shadow. 

The  student  was  waiting  by  the  window  on 
the  stairs.  He  was  already  no  longer  a  young 
man.  He  was  thin  and  fair-haired,  and  his  face 
was  long  and  pale,  tender  and  sickly.  His  good- 
natured,  short-sighted  blue  eyes,  with  the 
faintest  shade  of  a  squint,  look  out  as  through  a 
mist.  He  bowed  politely  to  the  landlady,  at 
which  she  smiled  in  confusion  and  fastened  the 
top  hook  of  her  blouse. 

'  I  should  like  a  room,'  he  said  softly,  as 
if  his  courage  was  ebbing.  '  I  have  to  go  on 
from  here.  But  I  should  be  obliged  for  a  candle 
and  pen  and  ink.' 

He  was  shoAvn  the  skittle-alley. 

'  Excellent,'  he  said.  '  I  couldn't  want  any- 
tliing  better.  It 's  wonderful  here.  Just  let 
me  have  a  pen  and  ink,  please.'  He  did  not 
require  tea  or  bed-linen. 


THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE  21 


III 

The  lamp  was  burning  in  the  landlady's  room. 
Alychka  sat  Turkish  fashion  in  the  open  window, 
watching  the  dark  heavy  mass  of  water,  lit  by 
electric  lamps,  wavering  below,  and  the  gentle 
motion  of  the  scant  dead  green  of  the  poplars 
along  the  quay.  Two  round  spots  of  bright  red 
were  burning  in  her  cheeks,  and  there  was  a  moist 
and  weary  light  in  her  eyes.  In  the  cooling  air 
the  petulant  sound  of  a  valse  graciously  floated 
from  far  away  on  the  other  side  of  the  river, 
where  the  lights  of  the  cafe  chantant  were  shining. 

They  were  drinking  tea  with  shop  bought 
raspberry  jam.  Adka  and  Edka  crumbled 
pieces  of  black  bread  into  their  saucers,  and 
made  a  kind  of  porridge.  They  smeared  their 
faces,  foreheads,  and  noses  with  it.  They  Ыелу 
bubbles  in  their  saucers.  Romka,  returned  with 
a  black  eye,  was  hastily  taking  noisy  sups  of  tea 
from  a  saucer.  Lieutenant  Tchijhevich  had 
unbuttoned  his  waistcoat,  extruding  his  paper 
dickey,  and  half  lay  on  the  sofa,  perfectly  happy 
in  this  domestic  idyll. 

'  Thank  God,  all  the  rooms  are  taken,'  Anna 
Friedrichovna  sighed  dreamily. 

'  You  see,  it 's  all  due  to  my  lucky  touch,'  said 
the  lieutenant.  '  When  I  came  back,  every- 
thing began  to  look  up.' 


22  THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE 

'  There,  tell  us  another.' 

'  No,  really,  my  touch  is  amazingly  lucky. 
By  God,  it  is  !  In  the  regiment,  when  Captain 
Gorojhevsky  took  the  bank,  he  always  used  to 
make  me  sit  beside  him.  My  God  !  how  those 
men  used  to  play  I  That  same  Gorojhevsky, 
when  he  was  still  a  subaltern,  at  the  time  of 
the  Turkish  War,  won  twelve  thousand.  Our 
regiment  came  to  Bukarest.  Of  course,  the 
officers  had  pots  of  money — nothing  to  do  with 
it — no  women.  They  began  cards.  Suddenly, 
Gorojhevsky  pounced  on  a  sharp.  You  could 
see  he  was  a  crook  by  the  cut  of  his  lug.  But 
he  faked  the  cards  so  cleverly  that  you  couldn't 
possibly  get  hold  of  him.  .   .  .' 

'  Wait  a  second.  I  '11  be  back  in  a  moment,' 
interrupted  the  landlady.  '  I  only  want  to  give 
out  a  towel.' 

She  went  out.  The  lieutenant  stealthily 
came  near  to  Alychka  and  bent  close  to  her. 
Her  beautiful  profile,  dark  against  the  back- 
ground of  night,  took  on  a  subtle,  tender  outline 
of  silver  in  the  radiance  of  the  electric  lamps. 

'  What  are  you  thinking  about,  Alychka — 
perhaps  I  should  say,  whom  ?  '  he  asked  in  a 
sweet  tremolo. 

She  turned  away  from  him.  But  he  quickly 
lifted  the  thick  plait  of  her  hair  and  kissed  her 
beneath  her  hair  on  her  warm  thin  neck,  greedily 
smelling  the  perfume  of  her  skin. 

*  I  '11  tell  mother,'  whispered  Alychka,  with- 
out drawing  away. 

The  door  opened .     It  was  Anna  Friedrichovna 


THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE  23 

returned.      Immediately  the   lieutenant  began 
to  talk,  unnaturally  loud  and  free. 

'  Really,  it  would  be  лvonderful  to  be  on  a  boat 
with  your  beloved  or  your  dearest  friend  on  a 
spring  night  like  this.  .  .  .  Well,  to  continue, 
Anna,  darling.  So  Gorojhevsky  dropped  a  cool 
six  thousand,  if  you  '11  believe  me  !  At  last 
some  one  gave  hun  a  word  of  advice.  He  said  : 
"Basta — I'm  not  having  any  more  of  this. 
You  won't  mind  if  we  put  a  nail  through  the 
pack  to  the  table  and  tear  off  our  cards  ?  "  The 
felloлv  лvanted  to  get  out  of  it.  Gorojhevsky 
took  out  his  revolver  :  "You  '11  play,  you  dog, 
or  I  '11  blow  a  hole  in  your  head  !  "  There  was 
nothing  for  it.  The  crook  sat  down,  so  flustered 
that  he  clean  forgot  there  was  a  mirror  behind 
him.  Gorojhevsky  could  see  every  one  of  his 
cards.  So  Gorojhevsky  not  only  got  his  own 
back,  but  raked  in  a  clear  eleven  thousand  into 
the  bargain.  He  even  had  the  nail  mounted  in 
gold,  and  he  wears  it  as  a  charm  on  his  watch 
chain.' 


24  THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE 


IV 

At  the  moment  the  student  was  sitting  on  the 
bed  in  No.  5.  On  the  commode  before  him 
stood  a  candle  and  a  sheet  of  writing  paper. 
The  student  was  writing  quickly ;  then  he 
stopped  for  a  moment,  whispered  to  himself, 
shook  his  head,  smiled  a  constrained  smile  and 
wrote  again.  He  had  just  dipped  his  pen  deep 
in  the  ink.  He  spooned  up  the  liquid  wax 
round  the  wick  Avith  it  and  poked  the  mixture 
into  the  flame.  It  crackled  and  splashed  about 
everywhere  with  little  blue  darting  flames.  The 
firework  reminded  the  student  of  something 
funny,  dimly  remembered  from  his  distant 
childhood.  He  looked  at  the  flame  of  the 
candle,  his  eyes  narrowed,  and  a  sad,  distracted 
smile  formed  upon  his  lips.  Then  suddenly  as 
though  awakened  he  shook  his  head,  sighed, 
wiped  his  pen  on  the  sleeve  of  his  blue  blouse, 
and  continued  to  write  : 

'  Tell  them  everything  in  my  letter,  which 
you  will  believe,  I  know.  They  will  not  under- 
stand me  all  the  same  ;  but  you  will  have 
simple  words  that  will  be  intelligible  to  them. 
One  thing  is  very  strange.  Here  am  I  writing 
to  you,  yet  I  know  that  in  ten  or  fifteen  minutes 
I  shall  shoot  myself — and  the  thought  does  not 
frighten  me  at  all.  But  when  that  huge  grey 
colonel  of  the  gendarmes  went  red  all  over  and 


THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE  25 

stamped  his  feet  and  swore,  I  was  quite  lost. 
When  he  cried  that  my  obstinacy  was  useless, 
and  only  ruined  my  comrades  and  myself,  that 
Bieloussov  as  well  as  Knigge  and  Soloveitchik 
had  confessed,  I  confessed  too.  I,  who  am  not 
afraid  of  death,  was  afraid  of  the  shouting  of 
this  dull,  narrow-minded  clod,  petrified  with 
professional  conceit.  What  is  more  disgusting 
still,  he  dared  not  shout  at  the  others.  He 
was  courteous,  obliging,  and  sugary  to  them,  like 
a  suburban  dentist.  He  was  even  a  Liberal. 
But  in  me  he  saw  at  once  a  weak,  yielding  will. 
You  can  feel  it  in  people  at  a  mere  glance — 
there  's  no  need  of  words. 

'  Yes,  I  confess  that  it  was  all  mad  and  con- 
temptible and  ridiculous  and  loathsome.  But 
it  could  not  be  otherwise.  And  if  it  were  to  be 
again,  it  would  happen  as  before.  Desperately 
brave  generals  are  often  frightened  of  mice. 
Sometimes  they  even  boast  of  their  little  weak- 
ness. But  I  say  with  sorrow  that  I  fear  these 
wooden  people,  whose  view  of  the  world  is 
rigid  and  unchangeable,  who  are  stupidly  self- 
confident,  and  have  no  hesitations,  worse 
than  death.  If  you  knew  how  timid  and  uncom- 
fortable I  am  before  huge  policemen,  ugly 
Petersburg  porters,  typists  in  the  editorial 
offices  of  magazines,  magistrates'  clerks,  and 
snarling  stationmasters  !  Once  I  had  to  have 
my  signature  witnessed  at  the  police  station, 
and  the  mere  look  of  the  fat  inspector,  with  his 
ginger  moustache  as  big  as  a  palm  tree,  his 
important  chest  and  his  fish  eyes,  who  in- 
terrupted me  continually,  would  not  hear  me 


26  THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE 

out,  forgot  me  altogether  for  minutes  on  end,  or 
suddenly  pretended  that  he  could  not  understand 
the  simplest  Russian  words — his  mere  look  made 
me  so  disgustingly  frightened  that  I  could  catch 
an  insinuating,  servile  inflection  in  my  voice. 

*  Who 's  to  blame  for  it  ?  I  '11  tell  you.  My 
mother.  She  was  the  original  cause  of  the 
fouling  and  corruption  of  my  soul  with  a  vile 
cowardice.  She  became  a  widow  when  she  was 
still  young,  and  my  first  impressions  as  a  child 
are  indissolubly  mixed  up  with  wandering  in 
other  people's  houses,  servile  smiles,  petty  in- 
tolerable insults,  complaisance,  lying,  whining 
pitiful  grimaces,  the  vile  phrases  :  "a  little  drop, 
a  little  bit,  a  little  cup  of  tea."  ...  I  was  made 
to  kiss  my  benefactors'  hands — men  and  women. 
My  mother  protested  that  I  did  not  like  this 
dainty  or  that ;  she  lied  that  I  had  a  weak 
stomach,  because  she  knew  that  the  children  of 
the  house  would  have  more,  and  the  host  would 
like  it.  The  servants  sneered  at  us  on  the  sly. 
They  called  me  hunchback,  because  I  had  a 
stoop  from  childhood.  They  called  my  mother 
a  hanger-on  and  a  beggar  in  my  presence.  And 
to  make  the  kind  people  laugh  my  mother 
herself  would  put  her  shabby  old  leather 
cigarette  case  to  her  nose  and  bend  it  double : 
"  That 's  my  darling  Levoushka's  nose."  They 
laughed,  and  I  blushed  and  suffered  endlessly 
for  her  and  for  myself ;  but  I  kept  silent, 
because  I  must  not  speak  in  the  presence  of 
my  benefactors.  I  hated  them,  for  looking  at 
me  as  though  I  were  a  stone,  idly  and  lazily 
thrusting  their  hand  to  my  mouth  for^me  to 


THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE  27 

kiss.  I  hated  and  feared  them,  as  I  still  hate 
and  fear  all  decided,  self-satisfied,  rigid,  sober 
people,  who  know  everything  beforehand — 
club  orators ;  old  red-faced  hairy  professors, 
who  flirt  with  their  harmless  Liberalism  ;  impos- 
ing, anointed  canons  of  cathedrals ;  colonels  of 
the  gendarmerie  ;  radical  lady-doctors,  луЬо  ever- 
lastingly repeat  bits  out  of  manifestoes,  whose 
soul  is  as  cold,  as  cruel,  and  as  flat  as  a  marble 
table-top.  When  I  speak  to  them  I  feel  that 
there  is  on  my  face  a  loathsome  mark,  a  servile 
officious  smile  that  is  not  mine,  and  I  despise 
myself  for  my  thin  wheedling  voice,  in  which  I 
can  catch  the  echo  of  my  mother's  note.  These 
people's  souls  are  dead  :  their  thoughts  are  fixed 
in  straight  inflexible  lines ;  and  they  are  merciless 
as  only  a  convinced  and  stupid  man  can  be. 

'  I  spent  the  years  between  seven  and  ten  in  a 
state  charity  school  on  the  Froebel  system.  The 
mistresses  were  all  soured  old  maids,  all  suffer- 
ing from  inflammations,  and  they  instilled  into 
us  respect  for  the  generous  authorities,  taught 
us  how  to  spy  on  each  other  and  tell  tales,  how 
to  envy  the  favourites,  and,  most  important 
of  all,  how  to  behave  as  quietly  as  possible. 
But  we  boys  educated  ourselves  in  thieving  and 
abuses.  Later  on — still  charity — I  was  taken 
as  a  state  boarder  into  a  gymnasium.  The  in- 
spectors visited  and  spied  on  us.  We  learnt 
like  parrots :  smoking  in  the  third  form ; 
drinking  in  the  fourth  ;  in  the  fifth,  the  first 
prostitute  and  the  first  vile  disease. 
^  '  Then  suddenly  there  arose  new,  young  words 
like    a   Avind,    impetuous    dreams,    free,    fiery, 


28  THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE 

thoughts.  My  mind  opened  eagerly  to  meet 
them,  but  my  soul  was  already  ruined  for  ever, 
soiled  and  dead.  It  had  been  bitten  by  a  mean, 
weak-nerved  timidity,  like  a  tick  in  a  dog's 
ear  :  you  tear  it  off,  but  the  small  head  remains 
to  grow  again  into  a  complete,  loathsome  insect. 

*  I  was  not  the  only  one  to  die  of  the  moral 
contagion,  though  perhaps  I  was  the  weakest 
of  all.  But  all  the  past  generation  has  grown 
up  in  an  atmosphere  of  sanctimonious  tran- 
quillity, of  forced  respect  to  its  elders,  of  lack 
of  all  individuality  and  dumbness.  A  curse  on 
this  vile  age,  of  silence  and  poverty,  this  peace- 
ful prosperous  life  under  the  dumb  shadow  of 
pious  reaction  :  for  the  quiet  degradation  of 
the  human  soul  is  more  horrible  than  all  the 
barricades  and  slaughter  in  the  world. 

*  Strange  that  \vhen  I  am  alone  with  my  own 
will,  I  am  not  only  no  coward,  but  there  are 
few  people  I  know  who  are  more  ready  to  risk 
their  lives.  I  have  walked  from  one  window- 
sill  to  another  five  stories  above  ground  and 
looked  down  below  ;  I  've  swum  so  far  out  into 
the  sea  that  my  hands  and  feet  would  move  no 
more,  and  I  had  to  lie  on  my  back  and  rest  to 
avoid  cramp.  And  many  things  besides.  Finally, 
in  ten  minutes  I  shall  kill  myself — and  that  is 
something.  But  I  am  afraid  of  people.  I  fear 
people  !  When  from  my  room  I  hear  drunken 
men  swearing  and  fighting  in  the  street  I  go 
pale  with  terror.  When  I  imagine  at  night  as 
I  lie  in  bed,  an  empty  square  with  a  squadron 
of  Cossacks  galloping  in  with  a  roar,  my  heart 
stops  beating,  my  body  grows  cold  all  over,  and 


THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE  29 

my  fingers  contract  convulsively.  I  am  always 
frightened  of  something  which  exists  in  the 
majority  of  people,  but  which  I  cannot  explain. 
The  young  generation  of  the  period  of  transi- 
tion were  like  me.  In  our  mind  we  despised  our 
slavery,  but  we  ourselves  became  cowardly 
slaves.  Our  hatred  was  deep  and  passionate, 
but  barren,  like  the  mad  love  of  a  eunuch. 

*  But  you  will  understand  everything,  and 
explain  it  all  to  the  comrades  to  whom  I  say 
before  I  die,  that  in  spite  of  all,  I  love  and 
respect  them.  Perhaps  they  will  believe  you 
when  you  tell  them  that  I  did  not  die  wholly 
because  I  had  betrayed  them  vilely  and  against 
my  will.  I  know  that  there  is  in  the  world 
nothing  more  horrible  than  the  horrible  word 
"  Traitor."  It  moves  from  lips  to  ears,  from 
lips  to  ears,  and  kills  a  man  alive.  Oh,  I  could 
set  right  my  mistake  were  I  not  born  and  bred 
a  slave  of  human  impudence,  cowardice,  and 
stupidity.  But  because  I  am  this  slave,  I  die. 
In  these  great  fiery  days  it  is  disgraceful,  difficult, 
no,  quite  impossible  for  men  like  me  to  live. 

'  Yes,  my  darling,  I  have  heard,  seen,  and  read 
much  in  the  last  year.  I  tell  you  there  came  a 
moment  of  awful  volcanic  eruption.  The  flame 
of  long  pent-up  anger  broke  out  and  over- 
whelmed everything :  fear  of  the  morrow, 
respect  for  parents,  love  of  life,  peaceful  joys  of 
family  happiness.  I  know  of  boys,  hardly 
more  than  children,  who  refused  to  have  a 
bandage  on  their  eyes  when  they  were  executed. 
I  myself  saw  people  who  underwent  tortures, 
yet  uttered  not  a  word.   It  was  all  born  suddenly, 


30  THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE 

ill  a  tempestuous  wind.  Eagles  awoke  out  of 
turkey  eggs.     Let  who  will  arrest  their  flight ! 

'  I  am  quite  certain  that  a  sixth-form  boy  of 
to-day  would  proclaim  the  demands  of  his  party, 
firmly,  intelligently,  perhaps  with  a  touch  of 
arrogance,  in  the  presence  of  all  the  crowned 
heads  and  all  the  chiefs  of  police  in  Europe,  in 
any  throne  room.  It  is  true  the  precious  school- 
boy is  very  nearly  ridiculous,  but  a  sacred  re- 
spect for  his  proud  free  self  is  already  growing  up 
within  him,  a  respect  for  everything  that  has  been 
corroded  in  us  by  spiritual  poverty  and  anxious 
paternal  morality.     We  must  go  to  the  devil. 

*  It  is  just  eight  minutes  to  nine.  At  nine 
exactly  it  лу111  be  all  over  with  me.  A  dog 
barks  outside — one,  two — then  is  silent  for  a 
little  and — one,  two,  three.  Perhaps,  \vhen 
my  consciousness  has  been  put  out,  and  with  it 
everything  has  disappeared  from  me  for  ever  : 
towns,  public  squares,  hooting  steamers,  morn- 
ings and  nights,  apartment  rooms,  ticking 
clocks,  people,  animals,  the  air,  the  light  and 
dark,  time  and  space,  and  there  is  nothing — 
then  there  will  be  no  thought  of  this  "nothing"  ! 
Perhaps  the  dog  will  go  on  barking  for  a  long 
while  to-night,  first  twice,  then  three  times.  .  .  . 

'  Five  minutes  to  nine.  A  funny  idea  is  occupy- 
ing me.  I  think  that  a  human  thought  is  like 
a  current  from  some  electric  centre,  an  intense, 
radiating  vibration  of  the  imponderable  ether, 
poured  out  in  the  spaces  of  the  world,  and  pass- 
ing with  equal  ease  through  the  atoms  of  stone, 
iron,  and  air.  A  thought  springs  from  my  brain 
and  all  the  sphere  of  the  universe  begins  to 


THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE  31 

tremble,  to  ripple  round  me  like  water  into  which 
a  stone  is  flung,  like  a  sound  about  a  vibrating 
string.  And  I  think  that  when  a  man  passes 
away  his  consciousness  is  put  out,  but  his 
thought  still  remains,  trembling  in  its  former 
place.  Perhaps  the  thoughts  and  dreams  of  all 
the  people  who  were  before  me  in  this  long, 
gloomy  room  are  still  hovering  round  me,  direct- 
ing my  will  in  secret ;  and  perhaps  to-morrow 
a  casual  tenant  of  this  room  will  suddenly  begin 
to  think  of  life,  of  death,  and  suicide,  because 
I  leave  my  thoughts  behind  me  here.  And  who 
can  say  лvhether  my  thoughts,  independent  of 
weight  and  time  and  the  obstacles  of  matter, 
are  not  at  the  same  moment  being  caught  by 
mysterious,  delicate,  but  unconscious  receivers 
in  the  brain  of  an  inhabitant  of  Mars  as  well  as 
in  the  brain  of  the  dog  who  barks  outside  ? 
Ah,  I  think  that  nothing  in  the  world  vanishes 
utterly — nothing — not  only  what  is  said,  but 
Avhat  is  thought.  All  our  deeds  and  words  and 
thoughts  are  little  streams,  trickling  springs 
underground.  I  believe,  I  see,  they  meet,  flow 
together  into  river-heads,  ooze  to  the  surface, 
run  into  rivulets,  and  полу  they  rush  in  the  wild, 
broad  stream  of  the  harmonious  River  of  Life. 
The  River  of  Life — how  great  it  is  !  Sooner  or 
later  it  will  bear  everything  away,  and  wash 
down  all  the  strongholds  which  imprisoned 
the  freedom  of  the  spirit.  Where  a  shoal 
of  triviality  was  before,  there  will  be  the  pro- 
foundest  depth  of  heroism.  In  a  moment  it 
will  bear  me  away  to  a  cold,  remote,  and  in- 
conceivable land,  and  perhaps  within  a  year 


32  THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE 

it  лу111  pour  in  torrents  over  all  this  mighty 
toлvn  and  flood  it  and  carry  away  in  its  waters 
not  merely  its  ruins,  but  its  very  name. 

'  Perhaps  what  I  am  writing  is  all  ridiculous.  I 
have  two  minutes  left.  The  candle  is  burning  and 
the  clock  ticking  hurriedly  in  front  of  me.  The 
dog  is  still  barking.  What  if  there  remain  nothing 
of  me — nothing  of  me,  or  in  me,  but  one  thing 
only,  the  last  sensation,  perhaps  pain,  perhaps 
the  sound  of  the  pistol,  perhaps  wild  naked 
terror  ;  but  it  Avill  remain  for  ever,  for  thousands 
of  millions  of  centuries,  in  the  millionth  degree. 

'  The  hand  has  reached  the  hour.  We  '11  know 
it  all  now.  No,  wait.  Some  ridiculous  modesty 
made  me  get  up  and  lock  the  door.  Good-bye. 
One  word  more.  Surely  the  obscure  soul  of  the 
dog  must  be  far  more  susceptible  to  the  vibra- 
tions of  thought  than  the  human.  .  .  .  Do  they 
not  bark  because  they  feel  the  presence  of  a 
dead  man  ?  This  dog  that  barks  downstairs  too. 
But  in  a  second,  new  monstrous  currents  will 
rush  out  of  the  central  battery  of  my  brain  and 
touch  the  poor  brain  of  the  dog.  It  will  begin 
to  howl  with  a  queer,  intolerable  terror.  .  .  . 
Good-bye,  I  'm  going  ! ' 

The  student  sealed  the  letter — for  some  reason 
he  carefully  closed  the  ink-pot  with  a  cork — and 
took  a  Browning  out  of  his  jacket  pocket.  He 
turned  the  safety  catch  from  sur  to  feu.  He  put 
his  legs  apart  so  that  he  could  stand  firm,  and 
closed  his  eyes.  Suddenly,  with  both  hands  he 
swiftly  raised  the  revolver  to  his  right  temple 
and  pulled  tlie  trigger. 


THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE  33 

'  What 's  that  ?  '  Anna  Friedrichovna  asked 
in  alarm. 

'  That 's  your  student  shooting  himself,'  the 
lieutenant  said  carelessly.  '  They  're  such 
canaille — these  students.  .  .  .' 

But  Anna  Friedrichovna  jumped  up  and  ran 
into  the  corridor,  the  lieutenant  following  at  his 
leisure.  From  room  No.  5  came  a  sour  smell  of 
gas  and  smokeless  powder.  They  looked  through 
the  keyhole.     The  student  lay  on  the  floor. 

Within  five  minutes  there  was  a  thick,  black, 
eager  crowd  standing  in  the  street  outside  the 
hotel.  In  exasperation  Arseny  drove  the  out- 
siders away  from  the  stairs.  Commotion  was 
everywhere  in  the  hotel.  A  locksmith  broke 
open  the  door  of  the  room.  The  caretaker  ran 
for  the  police  ;  the  chambermaid  for  the  doctor. 
After  some  time  appeared  the  police  inspector, 
a  tall  thin  young  man  with  white  hair,  white  eye- 
lashes, and  a  white  moustache.  He  Avas  in  uni- 
form. His  wide  trousers  were  so  full  that  they 
fell  half  way  down  over  his  polished  jack-boots. 
Immediately  he  pressed  his  way  through  the 
public,  and  roared  with  the  voice  of  authority, 
sticking  out  his  bright  eyes  : 

'  Get  back  I  Clear  off  !  I  can't  understand 
what  it  is  you  find  so  curious  here.  Nothing 
at  all.  You,  sir  !  ...  I  ask  you  once  more.  And 
he  looks  like  an  intellectual,  in  a  bowler  hat.  .  .  . 
What 's  that  ?  I  '11  show  you  "  police  tyranny." 
Mikhailtchuk,  just  take  note  of  that  man  !  Hi, 
where  are  you  crawling  to,  boy  ?     I  '11 ' 

The  door  was  broken  open.     Into  the  room 


34  THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE 

burst  Anna  Friedrichovna,  the  police  inspector, 
the  Heutenant,  the  four  children  ;  for  witnesses, 
one  policeman  and  two  caretakers  ;  and  after 
them,  the  doctor.  The  student  lay  on  the  floor, 
with  his  face  buried  in  the  strip  of  grey  carpet 
by  the  bed.  His  left  arm  was  bent  beneath  his 
chest,  his  right  flung  out.  The  pistol  lay  on  one 
side.  Under  his  head  was  a  pool  of  dark  blood, 
and  a  little  round  hole  in  his  left  temple.  The 
candle  was  still  burning,  and  the  clock  on  the 
commode  ticked  hurriedly. 

A  short  proces-verbal  was  composed  in 
wooden  official  terms,  and  the  suicide's  letter 
attached  to  it.  .  .  .  The  two  caretakers  and 
the  policeman  carried  the  corpse  downstairs. 
Arseny  lighted  the  way,  lifting  the  lamp  above 
his  head.  Anna  Friedrichovna,  the  police 
inspector  and  the  lieutenant  looked  on  through 
the  window  in  the  corridor  upstairs.  The 
bearers'  movements  got  out  of  step  at  the  turn- 
ing ;  they  jammed  between  the  wall  and  the 
banisters,  and  the  one  who  was  supporting  the 
head  from  behind  let  go  his  hands.  The  head 
knocked  sharply  against  the  stairs — one,  two, 
three.  .  .  . 

'  Serves  him  right,  serves  him  right,'  angrily 
cried  the  landlady  from  the  window.  '  Serves 
him  right,  the  scoundrel  !  I  '11  give  you  a  good 
tip  for  that !  ' 

'  You  're  very  bloodthirsty,  Madame  Sieg- 
mayer,'  the  police  inspector  remarked  playfully, 
twisting  his  moustache,  and  looking  sideways 
at  the  end  of  it. 


THE  RIVER  or  LIFE  35 

'  Why,  he  '11  get  me  into  the  papers,  now. 
I  'm  a  poor  working  woman  ;  and  now,  all  along 
of  him,  people  will  keep  away  from  my  hotel.' 

'  Naturally,'  the  inspector  kindly  agreed.  '  I 
can't  understand  these  student  fellows.  They 
don't  want  to  study.  They  brandish  a  red  flag, 
and  then  shoot  themselves.  They  don't  want 
to  understand  what  their  parents  must  feel. 
They  're  bought  by  Jewish  money,  damn  them  ! 
But  there  are  decent  men  at  the  same  game, 
sons  of  noblemen,  priests,  merchants.  ...  A  nice 
lot !     However,  I  give  you  my  compliments.  .  .  .' 

'  No,  no,  no,  no  !  Not  for  anything  in  the 
world  !  '  The  landlady  pulled  herself  together. 
'We'll  have  supper  in  a  moment.  A  nice 
little  bit  of  herring.  Otherwise,  I  won't  let 
you  go,  for  anything.' 

'  To  tell  the  truth '     The  inspector  spoke 

in  perplexity.  '  Very  well.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  was  going  to  drop  in  to  Nagourno's 
opposite  for  something.  Our  work,'  he  said, 
politely  making  way  for  the  landlady  through 
the  door,  '  is  hard.  Sometimes  we  don't  get 
a  bite  all  day  long.' 

All  three  had  a  good  deal  of  vodka  at  supper. 
Anna  Friedrichovna,  red  all  over,  with  shining 
eyes  and  lips  hke  blood,  slipped  off  one  of  her 
shoes  beneath  the  table  and  pressed  the  in- 
spector's foot.  The  lieutenant  frowned,  became 
jealous,  and  all  the  while  tried  to  begin  a  story 

of   '  In  the  regiment '     The  inspector  did 

not  listen,  but  interrupted  with  terrific  tales 
of  *  In  the   police '     Each  tried  to  be  as 


86  THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE 

contemptuous  of  and  inattentive  to  the  other 
as  he  could.  They  were  both  hke  a  couple  of 
young  dogs  that  have  just  met  in  the  yard. 

'  You  're  everlastingly  talking  of  "In  the 
regiment,"  '  said  the  inspector,  looking  not  at 
the  lieutenant,  but  the  landlady.  '  Would  you 
mind  my  asking  what  was  the  reason  why  you 
left  the  service  ?  ' 

'  Well,  .  .  .'  the  lieutenant  replied,  offended. 
'  Would  you  like  me  to  ask  you  how  you  came 
to  be  in  the  police  ;  how  you  came  to  such  a  life  ? ' 

Here  Anna  Friedrichovna  brought  the 
'  Monopan '  musical  box  out  of  the  corner  and 
made  Tchijhevich  turn  the  handle.  After  some 
invitation  the  inspector  danced  a  polka  with 
her — she  jumped  about  like  a  little  girl,  and 
the  curls  on  her  forehead  jumped  with  her. 
Then  the  inspector  turned  the  handle  while  the 
lieutenant  danced,  pressing  the  landlady's  arm 
to  his  left  side,  with  his  head  flung  back. 
Alychka  also  danced  with  downcast  eyes,  and 
her  tender  dissipated  smile  on  her  lips.  The 
inspector  was  saying  his  last  good-bye,  when 
Romka  appeared. 

'  There,   I  've   been   seeing   the   student   off, 

and  while  I  was  away  you  've  been I  'm 

treated  like  a  do-o-og.' 

And  what  was  once  a  student  now  lay  in  the 
cold  cellar  of  an  anatomical  theatre,  in  a  zinc 
box,  standing  on  ice — lit  by  a  yellow  gas  flame, 
yellow  and  repulsive.  On  his  bare  right  leg  above 
the  knee  in  gross  ink  figures  was  written  '  14.' 
That  was  his  number  in  the  anatomical  theatre. 


II 

CAPTAIN   RIBNIKOV 


CAPTAIN    RIBNIKOV 


On  the  very  day  when  the  awful  disaster  to  the 
Russian  fleet  at  Tsushima  was  nearing  its 
end,  and  the  first  vague  and  alarming  reports 
of  that  bloody  triumph  of  the  Japanese  were 
being  circulated  over  Europe,  Staff-Captain 
Ribnikov,  who  lived  in  an  obscure  alley  in  the 
Pieski  quarter,  received  the  following  telegram 
from  Irkutsk :  Send  lists  immediately  watch 
patient  pay  debts. 

Staff-Captain  Ribnikov  immediately  informed 
his  landlady  that  he  was  called  away  from 
Petersburg  on  business  for  a  day  or  two,  and 
told  her  not  to  worry  about  his  absence.  Then 
he  dressed  himself,  left  the  house,  and  never 
returned  to  it  again. 

Only  five  days  had  passed  when  the  landlady 
was  summoned  to  the  police  station  to  give 
evidence  about  her  missing  lodger.  She  was  a 
tall  луотап  of  forty-five,  the  honest  widow  of 
an  ecclesiastical  official,  and  in  a  simple  and 
straightforward  manner  she  told  all  that  she 
knew  of  him.  Her  lodger  was  a  quiet,  poor, 
simple  man,  a  moderate  eater,  and  polite.  He 
neither  drank  nor  smoked,  rarely  went  out  of 
the  house,  and  had  no  visitors.     She  could  say 

3» 


40  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

nothing  more,  in  spite  of  all  her  respectful 
terror  of  the  inspector  of  gendarmerie,  who 
moved  his  luxurious  moustaches  in  a  terrifying 
way  and  had  a  fine  stock  of  abuse  on  hand. 

During  this  five  days'  interval  Staff-Captain 
Ribnikov  ran  or  drove  over  the  whole  of 
Petersburg.  Everywhere,  in  the  streets, 
restaurants,  theatres,  tramcars,  the  railway 
stations,  this  dark  lame  little  officer  appeared. 
He  was  strangely  talkative,  untidy,  not  par- 
ticularly sober,  dressed  in  an  infantry  uniform, 
with  an  all-over  red  collar — a  perlect  type  of  the 
rat  attached  to  military  hospitals,  or  the  com- 
missariat, or  the  War  Office.  He  also  appeared 
more  than  once  at  the  Staff  Office,  the  Committee 
for  the  Care  of  the  Wounded,  at  police  stations, 
at  the  office  of  the  Military  Governor,  at  the 
Cossack  headquarters,  and  at  dozens  of  other 
offices,  irritating  the  officials  by  his  senseless 
grumbling  and  complaints,  by  his  abject  begging, 
his  typical  infantry  rudeness,  and  his  noisy 
patriotism.  Already  every  one  knew  by  heart 
that  he  had  served  in  the  Army  Transport, 
had  been  wounded  in  the  head  at  Liao-Yang, 
and  touched  in  tlie  leg  in  the  retreat  from 
Mukden.  '  Why  the  devil  hasn't  he  received 
a  gratuity  before  now  !  Why  haven't  they  given 
him  his  daily  money  and  his  travelling  ex- 
penses !  And  his  last  two  months  pay  !  He  is 
absolutely  ready  to  give  his  last  drop  of  blood — 
damn  it  all — for  the  Czar,  the  throne,  and  the 
country,  and  he  will  return  to  the  Far  East  the 
moment  his  leg  has  healed.     But  the  cursed  leg 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  41 

won't  heal — a  hundred  devils  take  it.     Imagine 

only — gangrene  1   Look  yourself '  and  he  put 

his  wounded  leg  on  a  chair,  and  was  already 
eagerly  pulling  up  his  trouser;  but  he  was 
stopped  every  time  by  a  squeamish  and  com- 
passionate shyness.  His  bustling  and  nervous 
familiarity,  his  startled,  frightened  look,  which 
bordered  strangely  on  impertinence,  his  stupidity, 
his  persistent  and  frivolous  curiosity  taxed  to 
the  utmost  the  patience  of  men  occupied  in 
important  and  terribly  responsible  scribbling. 

In  vain  it  was  explained  to  him  in  the  kindest 
possible  луау  that  he  had  come  to  the  wrong 
place  ;  that  he  ought  to  apply  at  such  and  such 
a  place  ;  that  he  must  produce  certain  papers  ; 
that  they  will  let  him  know  the  result.  He 
understood  nothing,  absolutely  nothing.  But 
it  was  impossible  to  be  very  angry  with  him ; 
he  was  so  helpless,  so  easily  scared  and  simple, 
and  if  any  one  lost  patience  and  interrupted 
him,  he  only  smiled  and  showed  his  gums  with  a 
foolish  look,  bowed  hastily  again  and  again,  and 
rubbed  his  hands  in  confusion.  Or  he  would 
suddenly  say  in  a  hoarse,  ingratiating  tone  : 

'  Couldn't  you  give  me  one  small  smoke  ? 
I  'm  dying  to  smoke.  And  I  haven't  a  cent  to 
buy  them.  "  Blessed  are  the  poor.  .  .  .  Poverty 's 
no  crime,"  as  they  say — but  sheer  indecency.' 

With  that  he  disarmed  the  most  disagreeable 
and  dour  officials.  He  was  given  a  cigarette, 
and  allowed  to  sit  by  the  extreme  corner  of  the 
table.  Unwillingly,  and  of  course  in  an  off-hand 
way,    they    would     answer     his     importunate 


42  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

questions  about  what  was  happening  at  the  war. 
But  there  was  something  very  affecting  and 
childishly  sincere  in  the  sickly  curiosity  with 
which  this  unfortunate,  grubby,  impoverished 
wounded  officer  of  the  line  followed  the  war. 
Quite  simply,  out  of  mere  humanity,  they 
wanted  to  reassure,  to  inform,  and  encourage 
him  ;  and  therefore  they  spoke  to  him  more 
frankly  than  to  the  rest. 

His  interest  in  everything  which  concerned 
Russo-Japanese  events  was  so  deep  that  while 
they  were  making  some  complicated  inquiry 
for  him  he  would  wander  from  room  to  room, 
and  table  to  table,  and  the  moment  he  caught 
a  couple  of  words  about  the  war  he  would 
approach  and  listen  with  his  habitual  strained 
and  silly  smile. 

When  he  finally  went  away,  as  well  as  a  sense 
of  relief  he  would  leave  a  vague,  heavy  and 
disquieting  regret  behind  him.  Often  well- 
groomed,  dandified  staff-officers  referred  to  him 
with  dignified  acerbity  : 

'  And  that 's  a  Russian  officer !  Look  at 
that  type.  Well,  it 's  pretty  plain  why  we  're 
losing  battle  after  battle.  Stupid,  dull,  with- 
out the  least  sense  of  his  own  dignity — poor  old 
Russia  ! ' 

During  these  busy  days  Captain  Ribnikov 
took  a  room  in  a  dirty  little  hotel  near  the 
railway  station. 

Though  he  had  with  him  a  Reserve  officer's 
proper  passport,  for  some  reason  he  found  it 
necessary  to  declare  that    his  papers  were  at 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  43 

present  in  the  Military  Governor's  office.  Into 
the  hotel  he  took  his  things,  a  hold-all  contain- 
ing a  rug  and  pillow,  a  travelling  bag,  and  a 
cheap,  new  box,  with  some  underclothing  and 
a  complete  outfit  of  mufti. 

Subsequently,  the  servants  gave  evidence  that 
he  used  to  come  to  the  hotel  late  and  as  if  a 
little  the  worse  for  drink,  but  always  regularly 
gave  the  door  porter  twopence  for  a  tip.  He 
never  used  to  sleep  more  than  three  or  four 
hours,  sometimes  without  undressing.  He  used 
to  get  up  early  and  pace  the  room  for  hours. 
In  the  afternoon  he  would  go  off. 

From  time  to  time  he  sent  telegrams  to 
Irkutsk  from  various  post  offices,  and  all  the 
telegrams  expressed  a  deep  concern  for  some  one 
wounded  and  seriously  ill,  probably  a  person 
very  dear  to  the  captain's  heart. 

It  was  with  this  same  curious  busy,  uncouth 
man  that  Vladimir  Ivanovich  Schavinsky,  a 
journalist  on  a  large  Petersburg  paper,  once  met. 


44  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 


II 

Just  before  he  went  off  to  the  races,  Schavinsky 
dropped  into  the  dingy  Httle  restaurant  called 
'  The  Glory  of  Petrograd,'  where  the  re- 
porters used  to  gather  at  two  in  the  afternoon 
to  exchange  thoughts  and  information.  The 
company  was  rough  and  ready,  gay,  cynical, 
omniscient,  and  hungry  enough ;  and  Schavinsky, 
who  was  to  some  degree  an  aristocrat  of  the 
newspaper  world,  naturally  did  not  belong  to 
it.  His  bright  and  amusing  Sunday  articles, 
which  were  not  too  deep,  had  a  considerable 
success  with  the  public.  He  made  a  great  deal 
of  money,  dressed  well,  and  had  plenty  of 
friends.  But  he  was  welcome  at  '  The  Glory  of 
Petrograd  '  as  well,  on  account  of  his  free  sharp 
tongue  and  the  affable  generosity  with  which 
he  lent  his  fellow-writers  half  sovereigns.  On 
this  day  the  reporters  had  promised  to  procure 
a  race-card  for  him,  with  mysterious  annotations 
from  the  stable. 

Vassily,  the  porter,  took  off  Schavinsky's 
overcoat,  with  a  friendly  and  respectful  smile. 

'  If  you  please,  Vladimir  Ivanovitch,  com- 
pany 's  all  there.  In  the  big  saloon,  where 
Prokhov  waits.' 

And  Prokhov,  stout,  close-cropped,  and  red- 
moustached,  also  gave  him  a  kindly  and  familiar 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  45 

smile,  as  usual  not  looking  straight  into  the  eyes 
of  a  respectable  customer,  but  over  his  head. 

'  A  long  time  since  you  've  honoured  us, 
Vladimir  Ivanovich  !  This  way,  please.  Every- 
body 's  here.' 

As  usual  his  fellow-writers  sat  round  the  long 
table  hurriedly  dipping  their  pens  in  the  single 
inkpot  and  scribbling  quickly  on  long  slips  of 
paper.  At  the  same  time,  лvithout  interrupting 
their  labours,  they  managed  to  swallow  pies,  fried 
sausages  and  mashed  potatoes,  vodka  and  beer, 
to  smoke  and  exchange  the  latest  news  of  the 
town  and  newspaper  gossip  that  cannot  be 
printed.  Some  one  was  sleeping  like  a  log  on 
the  sofa  with  his  face  in  a  handkerchief.  The 
air  in  the  saloon  was  blue,  thick  and  streaked 
with  tobacco  smoke. 

As  he  greeted  the  reporters,  Schavinsky  noticed 
the  captain,  in  his  ordinary  army  uniform,  among 
them.  He  was  sitting  with  his  legs  apart, 
resting  his  hands  and  chin  upon  the  hilt  of  a 
large  sword.  Schavinsky  was  not  surprised  at 
seeing  him,  as  he  had  learned  not  to  be  surprised 
at  anything  in  the  reporting  world.  He  had 
often  seen  lost  for  weeks  in  that  reckless  noisy 
company, — landowners  from  the  provinces, 
jewellers,  musicians,  dancing-masters,  actors, 
circus  proprietors,  fishmongers,  cafe-chantant 
managers,  gamblers  from  the  clubs,  and  other 
members  of  the  most  unexpected  professions. 

When  the  officer's  turn  came,  he  rose, 
straightened  his  shoulders,  stuck  out  his 
elbows,  and  introduced  himself  in  the  proper 


46  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

hoarse,  drink-sodden  voice  of  an  officer  of  the 
line  : 

'  H'm !  .  .  .  Cnptain  Ribnikov.  .  .  .  Pleased  to 
meet  you.  .  .  .  You  're  a  writer  too  ?  .  .  . 
Delighted.  ...  I  respect  the  writing  fraternity. 
The  press  is  the  sixth  great  power.     Eh,  what  ?  ' 

With  that  he  grinned,  clicked  his  heels  to- 
gether, shook  Schavinsky's  hand  violently, 
bowing  all  the  лvhile  in  a  particularly  funny 
луау,  bending  and  straightening  his  body  quickly. 

'  Where  have  I  seen  him  before  ?  '  the  un- 
easy thought  flashed  across  Schavinsky's  mind. 
'  He 's  wonderfully  like  some  one.  Who  can 
it  be  ?  ' 

Here  in  the  saloon  were  all  the  celebrities  of 
the  Petersburg  reporting  world.  The  Three 
Musketeers — Kodlubtzov,  Riazhkin,  and  Popov 
— were  never  seen  except  in  company.  Even 
their  names  were  so  easily  pronounced  together 
that  they  made  an  iambic  tetrameter.  This  did 
not  prevent  them  from  eternally  quarrelling,  and 
from  inventing  stories  of  incredible  extortion, 
criminal  forgery,  slander,  and  blackmail  about 
each  other.  There  was  present  also  Sergey 
Kondrashov,  whose  unrestrained  voluptuousness 
had  gained  him  the  name  of  '  A  Pathological 
Case,  not  a  man.'  There  was  also  a  man  whose 
name  had  been  effaced  by  time,  like  one  side  of 
a  worn  coin,  to  whom  remained  only  the  general 
nickname  '  Matanya,'  by  which  all  Petersburg 
knew  him.  Concerning  the  dour  -  looking 
Svischov,  who  wrote  paragraphs  '  In  the  police 
courts,'   they   said   jokingly :    '  Svischov   is   an 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  47 

awful  blackmailer — never  takes  less  than  three 
roubles.'  The  man  asleep  on  the  sofa  was  the 
long-haired  poet  Piestrukliin,  who  supported  his 
fragile,  drunken  existence  by  writing  lyrics  in 
honour  of  the  imperial  birthdays  and  the  twelve 
Church  holidays.  There  were  others  besides  of 
no  less  celebrity,  experts  in  municipal  affairs, 
fires,  inquests,  in  the  opening  and  closing  of 
public  gardens. 

Said  lanky,  shock-headed,  pimply  Matanya : 
'  They  '11  bring  you  the  card  immediately, 
Vladimir  Ivanovich.  Meanwhile,  I  commend 
our  brave  captain  to  your  attention.  He  has 
just  returned  from  the  Far  East,  where,  I  may 
say,  he  made  mince-meat  of  the  yelloAV-faced, 
squinting,  wily  enemy.  .  .  .  Now,  General,  fire 
away  ! ' 

The  officer  cleared  his  throat  and  spat  side- 
ways on  the  floor. 

'  Swine  ! '  thought  Schavinsky,  frowning. 

'  My  dear  chap,  the  Russian  soldier  's  not  to 
be  sneezed  at ! '  Ribnikov  bawled  hoarsely, 
rattling  his  sword.  '"Epic  heroes!"  as  the  im- 
mortal Suvorov  said.  Eh,  what  ?  In  a  word, 
.  .  .  but  I  tell  you  frankly,  our  commanders 
in  the  East  are  absolutely  worthless  !  You 
know  the  proverb :  "  Like  master,  like  man." 
Eh,  what  ?  They  thieve,  play  cards,  have 
mistresses  .  .  .  and  every  one  knows,  where 
the  devil  can't  manage  himself  he  sends  a 
woman.' 

'  You  were  talking  about  plans,  General,' 
Matanva  reminded  him. 


48  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

'  Ah  !  Plans  !  Merci  /  ...  My  head.  .  .  . 
I  've  been  on  the  booze  all  day.'  Ribnikov 
threw  a  quick,  sharp  glance  at  Schavinsky. 
'  Yes,  I  was  just  saying.  .  .  .  They  ordered  a 
certain  colonel  of  the  general  staff  to  make  a  re- 
connaissance, and  he  takes  with  him  a  squadron 
of  Cossacks — dare-devils.  Hell  take  'em  !  .  .  . 
Eh,  what  ?  He  sets  off  with  an  interpreter. 
Arrives  at  a  village,  "  What 's  the  name  ?  "  The 
interpreter  says  nothing.  "  At  him,  boys  !  " 
The  Cossacks  instantly  use  their  whips.  The  in- 
terpreter says  :  "  Butundu  !  "  And  "  Butundu  " 
is  Chinese  for  "  I  don't  understand."  Ha-ha  ! 
He  's  opened  his  mouth — the  son  of  a  bitch  ! 
The  colonel  writes  down  "  village,  Butundu." 
They  go  further  to  another  village.  "  What 's 
the  name  ?  "  "  Butundu."  "  What !  Butundu 
again  ?  "  "  Butundu."  Again  the  colonel  enters 
it  "  village,  Butundu."  So  he  entered  ten 
villages  under  the  name  of  "  Butundu,"  and 
turned  into  one  of  Tchekov's  types — "  Though 
you  are  Ivanov  the  seventh,"  says  he,  "  you  're 
a  fool  all  the  same."  ' 

'  Oh,  you  know  Tchekov  ?  '  asked  Schavinsky. 

'  Who  ?  Tchekov  ?  old  Anton  ?  You  bet- 
damn  him.  .  .  .  We  're  friends — we  're  often 
drunk  together.  ..."  Though  you  are  the 
seventh,"  says  he,  "  you  're  a  fool  all  the 
same."  ' 

'  Did  you  meet  him  in  the  East  ?  '  asked 
Schavinsky  quickly. 

'  Yes,  exactly,  in  the  East,  Tchekov  and  I,  old 
man.  .  .  .  "  Though  you  are  the  seventh "' 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  49 

While  he  spoke  Schavinsky  observed  him 
closely.  Everything  in  him  agreed  with  the 
conventional  army  type  :  his  voice,  manner, 
shabby  uniform,  his  coarse  and  threadbare 
speech.  Schavinsky  had  had  the  chance  of 
observing  hundreds  of  such  debauched  captains. 
They  had  the  same  grin,  the  same  '  Hell  take 
'em,'  twisted  their  moustaches  to  the  left  and 
right  with  the  same  bravado  ;  they  hunched 
their  shoulders,  stuck  out  their  elbows,  rested 
picturesquely  on  their  sAvord  and  clanked 
imaginary  spurs.  But  there  was  something  in- 
dividual about  him  as  well,  something  different, 
as  it  were,  locked  away,  which  Schavinsky  had 
never  seen,  neither  could  he  define  it — some 
intense,  inner,  nervous  force.  The  impression 
he  had  was  this  :  Schavinsky  would  not  have 
been  at  all  surprised  if  this  croaking  and  drunken 
soldier  of  fortune  had  suddenly  begun  to  talk 
of  subtle  and  intellectual  matters,  Avith  ease  and 
illumination,  elegantly  ;  neither  would  he  have 
been  surprised  at  some  mad,  sudden,  frenzied, 
even  bloody  prank  on  the  captain's  part. 

What  struck  Schavinsky  chiefly  in  the  cap- 
tain's looks  Avas  the  different  impression  he 
made  full  face  and  in  profile.  Side  face,  he  was 
a  common  Russian,  faintly  Kalmuck,  with  a 
small,  protruding  forehead  under  a  pointed  skull, 
a  formless  Russian  nose,  shaped  like  a  plum, 
thin  stiff  black  moustache  and  sparse  beard, 
the  grizzled  hair  cropped  close,  with  a  com- 
plexion burnt  to  a  dark  уеИолу  by  the  sun.  .  .  . 
But  when  he  turned  full  face  Schavinsky  was 


50  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

immediately  reminded  of  some  one.  There  was 
something  extraordinarily  familiar  about  him, 
but  this  '  something  '  was  impossible  to  grasp. 
He  felt  it  in  those  narrow  coffee-coloured  bright 
eagle  eyes,  slit  sideways ;  in  the  alarming  curve 
of  the  black  eyebrows,  which  sprang  upwards 
from  the  bridge  of  the  nose  ;  in  the  healthy  dry- 
ness of  the  skin  strained  over  the  huge  cheek- 
bones ;  and,  above  all,  in  the  general  expression 
of  the  face — malicious,  sneering,  intelligent, 
perhaps  even  haughty,  but  not  human,  like  a 
wild  beast  rather,  or,  more  truly,  a  face  belonging 
to  a  creature  of  another  planet. 

'  It 's  as  if  I  'd  seen  him  in  a  dream  ! '  the 
thought  flashed  through  Schavinsky's  brain. 
While  he  looked  at  the  face  attentively  he  un- 
consciously screwed  up  his  eyes,  and  bent  his 
head  sideways. 

Ribnikov  immediately  turned  round  to  him 
and  began  to  giggle  loudly  and  nervously. 

'  Wliy  are  you  admiring  me,  Mr.  Author. 
Interested  ?  I ! '  He  raised  his  voice  and 
thumped  his  chest  with  a  curious  pride.  '  I  am 
Captain  Ribnikov.  Rib-ni-kov  !  An  orthodox 
Russian  warrior  who  slaughters  the  enemy, 
without  number.  That 's  a  Russian  soldier's 
song.     Eh,  what  ?  ' 

Kodlubtzov,  running  his  pen  over  the  paper, 
said  carelessly,  without  looking  at  Ribnikov, 
'  and  without  number,  surrenders.' 

Ribnikov  threw  a  quick  glance  at  Kodlubtzov, 
and  Schavinsky  noticed  that  strange  yellow 
green  fires  flashed  in  his  little  brown  eyes.     But 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  51 

this  lasted  only  an  instant.     The  captain  giggled, 
shrugged,  and  noisily  smacked  his  thighs. 

'  You  can't  do  anything  ;  it 's  the  will  of  the 
Lord.  As  the  fable  says.  Set  a  thief  to  catch 
a  thief.     Eh,  what  ?  ' 

He  suddenly  turned  to  Schavinsky,  tapped 
him  lightly  on  the  knee,  and  with  his  lips  uttered 
a  hopeless  sound  :  '  Phwit !  We  do  everything 
on  the  off-chance — higgledy-piggledy — anyhow  ! 
We  can't  adapt  ourselves  to  the  terrain ; 
the  shells  never  fit  the  guns ;  men  in  the  firing 
line  get  nothing  to  eat  for  four  days.  And  the 
Japanese — damn  them — w^rk  like  machines. 
Yellow  monkeys — and  civilisation  is  on  their 
side.     Damn  them  !     Eh,  what  ?  ' 

'  So  you  think  they  may  win  ?  '  Schavinsky 
asked. 

Again  Ribnikov's  lips  twitched.  Schavinsky 
had  already  managed  to  notice  this  habit  of  his. 
All  through  the  conversation,  especially  when 
the  captain  asked  a  question  and  guardedly 
waited  the  answer,  or  nervously  turned  to  face  a 
fixed  glance  from  some  one,  his  lips  would  twitch 
suddenly,  first  on  one  side  then  on  the  other,  and 
he  would  make  strange  grimaces,  like  convulsive, 
malignant  smiles.  At  the  same  time  he  would 
hastily  lick  his  dry,  cracked  lips  Avith  the  tip  of 
his  tongue — thin  bluish  lips  like  a  monkey's  or 
a  goat's. 

'  Who  knows  ?  '  said  the  captain.  '  God  only. 
.  .  .  You  can't  set  foot  on  your  own  doorstep 
without  God's  help,  as  the  proverb  goes.  Eh, 
what  ?     The  campaign  isn't  over  yet.     Every- 


52  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

thing 's  still  to  come.  The  Russian 's  used  to 
victory.  Remember  Poltava  and  the  unforget- 
table Suvorov  .  .  .  and  Sebastopol !  .  .  .  and 
how  we  cleared  out  Napoleon,  the  greatest 
captain  in  the  world,  in  1812.  Great  is  the 
God  of  Russia.     What  ?  ' 

As  he  began  to  talk  the  corners  of  his  lips 
twitched  into  strange  smiles,  malignant,  sneer- 
ing, inhuman,  and  an  ominous  yellow  gleam 
played  in  his  eyes,  beneath  the  black  frowning 
eyebrows. 

At  that  moment  they  brought  Schavinsky 
coffee. 

'  Wouldn't  you  like  a  glass  of  cognac  ?  '  he 
asked  the  captain. 

Ribnikov  again  tapped  him  lightly  on  the  knee. 
'  No  thanks,  old  man.  I  've  drunk  a  frightful 
lot  to-day,  damn  it.  My  noddle  's  fairly  split- 
ting. Damn  it  all,  I  've  been  pegging  since  the 
early  morning.  "  Russia's  joy 's  in  the  bottle  !  " 
Eh,  what  ? '  he  cried  suddenly,  with  an  air  of 
bravado  and  an  unexpectedly  drunken  note  in 
his  voice. 

'  He 's  shamming,'  Schavinsky  instantly 
thought.  But  for  some  reason  he  did  not  want 
to  leave  off,  and  he  went  on  treating  the  captain. 

'  What  do  you  say  to  beer  .  .  .  red  wine  ?  ' 

'  No  thanks.  I  'm  drunk  already  without 
that.     Gravb  merci.' 

'  Have  some  soda  ?  ' 

The  captain  cheered  up. 

'  Yes,  yes,  please.  Soda,  certainly.  I  could 
do  with  a  glass.' 


CAPTAIN  RTBNIKO^^  58 

They  brought  a  siphon.  Ribnikov  drank  a 
glass  in  large  greedy  gulps.  Even  his  hands 
began  to  tremble  with  eagerness.  He  poured 
himself  out  another  immediately.  At  once  it 
could  be  seen  that  he  had  been  suffering  a  long 
torment  of  thirst. 

'  He  's  shamming,'  Schavinsky  thought  again. 
'  What  an  amazing  man  !  Excited  and  tired, 
but  not  the  least  bit  drunk.' 

'  It 's  hot — damn  it,'  Ribnikov  said  hoarsely. 
'  But  I  think,  gentlemen,  I  'm  interfering  with 
your  business.' 

'  No,  it 's  all  right.  We  're  used  to  it,'  said 
Riazhkin  shortly. 

'  Haven't  5^u  any  fresh  news  of  the  луаг  ?  ' 
Ribnikov  asked.  '  A-ah,  gentlemen,'  he  sud- 
denly cried  and  banged  his  sword.  '  What  a  lot 
of  interesting  copy  I  could  give  you  about  the 
war  !  If  you  like,  I  '11  dictate,  you  need  only 
write.  You  need  only  write.  Just  call  it : 
Reminiscences  of  Captain  Ribnikov,  returned 
from  the  Front.  No,  don't  imagine — I  '11  do  it 
for  nothing,  free,  gratis.  What  do  you  say  to 
that,  my  dear  authors  ?  ' 

'  Well,  it  might  be  done,'  came  Matanya's 
lazy  voice  from  somewhere.  '  We  '11  manage 
a  little  interview  for  you  somehow.  Tell  me, 
Vladimir  Ivanovich,  do  you  know  anything  of 
the  Fleet  ?  ' 

'  No,  nothing.  ...  Is  there  any  news  ?  ' 

'  There 's  an  incredible  story,  Kondrashov 
heard  from  a  friend  on  the  Naval  Staff.  Hi ! 
Pathological  Case  !     Tell  Schavinsky.' 


54  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

The  Pathological  Case,  a  man  with  a  black 
tragedy  beard  and  a  chewed-up  face,  spoke 
through  his  nose : 

'  I  can't  guarantee  it,  Vladimir  Ivanovich. 
But  the  source  seems  reliable.  There  's  a  nasty 
rumour  going  about  the  Staff  that  the  great  part 
of  our  Fleet  has  surrendered  without  fighting — 
that  the  sailors  tied  up  the  officers  and  ran  up 
the  white  flag — something  like  twenty  ships.' 

'  That 's  really  terrible,'  said  Schavinsky  in 
a  quiet  voice.  '  Perhaps  it 's  not  true,  yet  ? 
Still — nowadays,  the  most  impossible  things  are 
possible.  By  the  way,  do  you  know  what 's 
happening  in  the  naval  ports — in  all  the  ships' 
crews  there  's  a  terrible  underground  ferment 
going  on.  The  naval  officers  ashore  are 
frightened  to  meet  the  men  in  their  command.' 

The  conversation  became  general.  This  in- 
quisitive, ubiquitous,  cynical  company  was  a 
sensitive  receiver,  unique  of  its  kind,  for  every 
conceivable  rumour  and  gossip  of  the  town, 
which  often  reached  the  private  saloon  of  '  The 
Glory  of  Petrograd  '  quicker  than  the  minister's 
sanctum.  Each  one  had  his  news.  It  was  so 
interesting  that  even  the  Three  Musketeers, 
who  seemed  to  count  nothing  in  the  world  sacred 
or  important,  began  to  talk  with  unusual 
fervour. 

'  There 's  a  rumour  going  about  that  the 
reserves  in  the  rear  of  the  army  refuse  to  obey 
orders.  The  soldiers  are  shooting  the  officers 
with  their  own  revolvers.' 

'  I  heard  that  the  general  in  command  hanged 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  55 

fifty  sisters  of  mercy.  Well,  of  course,  they  were 
only  dressed  as  sisters  of  mercy.' 

Schavinsky  glanced  round  at  Ribnikov.  Now 
the  talkative  captain  was  silent.  With  his  eyes 
screwed  and  his  chest  pressed  upon  the  hilt  of 
his  sword,  he  was  intently  watching  each  of  the 
speakers  in  turn.  Under  the  tight-stretched 
skin  of  his  cheekbones  the  sinews  strongly 
played,  and  his  lips  moved  as  if  he  were  repeating 
every  word  to  himself. 

'  My  God,  whom  does  he  remind  me  of  ?  '  the 
journalist  thought  impatiently  for  the  tenth 
time.  This  so  tormented  him  that  he  tried  to 
make  use  of  an  old  familiar  trick  ...  to  pretend 
to  himself  that  he  had  completely  forgotten  the 
captain,  and  then  suddenly  to  give  him  a  quick 
glance.  Usually  that  trick  soon  helped  him  to 
recall  a  name  or  a  meeting-place,  but  now  it  was 
quite  ineffective. 

Under  his  stubborn  look,  Ribnikov  turned 
round  again,  gave  a  deep  sigh  and  shook  his  head 
sadly. 

'  Awful  news  !  Do  you  believe  it  ?  What  ? 
Even  if  it  is  true  Ave  need  not  despair.  You 
know  what  we  Russians  say  :  "  Whom  God 
defends  the  pigs  can't  eat," — that 's  to  say, 
I  mean  that  the  pigs  are  the  Japanese,  of 
course.' 

He  held  out  stubbornly  against  Schavinsky's 
steady  look,  and  in  his  yellow  animal  eyes 
the  journalist  noticed  a  flame  of  implacable, 
inhuman  hatred. 

Piestrukhin,    the   poet   asleep   on   the   sofa, 


56  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

suddenly  got  up,  smacked  his  lips,  and  stared  at 
the  officer  with  dazed  eyes. 

'  Ah !  .  .  .  you  're  still  here,  Jap  mug,'  he 
said  drunkenly,  hardly  moving  his  mouth. 
'  You  just  get  out  of  it ! ' 

And  he  collapsed  on  the  sofa  again,  turning 
on  to  his  other  side. 

'  Japanese !  '  Schavinsky  thought  with 
anxious  curiosity,  '  That 's  what  he 's  like,' 
and  drawled  meaningly :  '  You  are  a  jewel, 
Captain  !  ' 

'  I  ?  '  the  latter  cried  out.  His  eyes  lost  their 
fire,  but  his  lips  still  twitched  nervously.  '  I  am 
Captain  Ribnikov  ! '  He  banged  himself  on  the 
chest  again  Avith  curious  pride.  '  My  Russian 
heart  bleeds.  Allow  me  to  shake  your  hand. 
My  head  was  grazed  at  Liao-Yang,  and  I  was 
wounded  in  the  leg  at  Mukden.  You  don't 
believe  it  ?     I  '11  show  you  now.' 

He  put  his  foot  on  a  chair  and  began  to  pull 
up  his  trousers. 

'  Don't !  .  .  .  stop  !  we  believe  you,'  Scha- 
vinsky said  with  a  frown.  Nevertheless,  his 
habitual  curiosity  enabled  him  to  steal  a  glance 
at  Ribnikov' s  leg  and  to  notice  that  this  infantry 
captain's  underclothing  was  of  expensive  spun 
silk. 

A  messenger  came  into  the  saloon  with  a  letter 
for  Matanya. 

'  That 's  for  you,  Vladimir  Ivanovich,'  said 
Matanya,  when  he  had  torn  the  envelope.  '  The 
race-card  from  the  stable.  Put  one  on  Zenith 
both  ways  for  me.     I  '11  pay  you  on  Tuesday.' 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  57 

'  Come  to  the  races  with  me,  Captain  ?  '  said 
Schavinsky. 

'  Where  ?  To  the  races  ?  With  pleasure.' 
Ribnikov  got  up  noisily,  upsetting  his  chair. 
'  Where  the  horses  jump  ?  Captain  Ribnikov 
at  your  service.  Into  battle,  on  the  march,  to 
the  devil's  dam  !  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  That 's  me  ! 
Eh,  what  ?  ' 

When  they  were  sitting  in  the  cab,  driving 
through  Cabinetsky  Street,  Schavinsky  slipped 
his  arm  through  the  officer's,  bent  right  down  to 
his  ear,  and  said,  in  a  voice  hardly  audible  : 

'  Don't  be  afraid.  I  shan't  betray  you. 
You  're  as  much  Ribnikov  as  I  am  Vanderbilt. 
You  're  an  officer  on  the  Japanese  Staff.  I  think 
you  're  a  colonel  at  least,  and  now  you  're  a 
military  agent  in  Russia.  .  .  .' 

Either  Ribnikov  did  not  hear  the  words  for 
the  noise  of  the  wheels  or  he  did  not  understand. 
Swaying  gentl}^  from  side  to  side,  he  spoke 
hoarsely  with  a  fresh  drunken  enthusiasm  : 

'  We  're  fairly  on  the  spree  now  !  Damn  it  all, 
I  adore  it.  I  'm  not  Captain  Ribnikov,  a 
Russian  soldier,  if  I  don't  love  Russian  writers  ! 
A  magnificent  lot  of  fellows  !  They  drink  like 
fishes,  and  know  all  about  life.  "  Russia's  joy 
is  in  the  bottle."  And  I  've  been  at  it  from 
the  morning,  old  man  ! ' 


58  CAPTAIN  RTBNIKOV 


III 

By  business  and  disposition  Schavinsky  was  a 
collector  of  human  documents,  of  rare  and 
strange  manifestations  of  the  human  spirit. 
Often  for  weeks,  sometimes  for  months  together, 
he  watched  an  interesting  type,  tracking  him 
down  лvith  the  persistence  of  a  passionate  sports- 
man or  an  eager  detective.  It  would  happen 
that  the  prize  was  found  to  be,  as  he  called  it, 
'  a  knight  of  the  black  star ' — a  sharper,  a 
notorious  plagiarist,  a  pimp,  a  souteneur,  a 
literary  maniac,  the  terror  of  every  editor,  a 
plunging  cashier  or  bank  messenger,  who  spends 
public  money  in  restaurants  and  gambling  hells 
лvith  the  madness  of  a  man  rushing  down  the 
steep  ;  but  no  less  the  objects  of  his  sporting 
passion  were  the  lions  of  the  season — pianists, 
singers,  litterateurs,  gamblers  with  amazing 
luck,  jockeys,  athletes,  and  cocottes  coming 
into  vogue.  By  hook  or  crook  Schavinsky 
made  their  acquaintance  and  then,  enveloping 
them  in  his  spider's  toils,  tenderly  and  gently 
secured  his  victim's  attention.  Then  he  was 
ready  for  anything.  He  would  sit  for  whole 
sleepless  nights  with  vulgar,  stupid  people,  whose 
mental  equipment, like  the  Hottentots', consisted 
of  a  dozen  or  two  animal  conceptions  and  cliches ; 
he  stood  drinks  and  dinners  to  damnable  fools 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  59 

and  scoundrels,  waiting  patiently  for  the  moment 
when  in  their  drunkenness  they  would  reveal  the 
full  flower  of  their  villainy.  He  flattered  them 
to  the  top  of  their  bent,  with  his  eyes  open  ; 
gave  them  monstrous  doses  of  flattery,  firmly 
convinced  that  flattery  is  the  key  to  open  every 
lock  ;  he  lent  them  money  generously,  knowing 
well  that  he  would  never  receive  it  back  again. 
In  justification  of  this  precarious  sport  he  could 
say  that  the  inner  psychological  interest  for  him 
considerably  surpassed  the  benefits  he  subse- 
quently acquired  as  a  realistic  writer.  It  gave 
him  a  subtle  and  obscure  delight  to  penetrate 
into  the  mysterious  inaccessible  chambers  of  the 
human  soul,  to  observe  the  hidden  springs  of 
external  acts,  springs  sometimes  petty,  some- 
times shameful,  more  often  ridiculous  than 
affecting — as  it  were,  to  hold  in  his  hand  for  a 
Avhile,  a  live,  warm  human  heart  and  touch  its 
very  pulse.  Often  in  this  inquisitive  pursuit  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  completel}'  losing  his 
own  '  ego,'  so  much  did  he  begin  to  think  and 
feel  Avith  another's  soul,  even  speaking  in  his 
language  with  his  peculiar  words  until  at  last 
he  even  caught  himself  using  another's  gesture 
and  tone.  But  when  he  had  saturated  himself 
in  a  man  he  threw  him  aside.  It  is  true  that 
sometimes  he  had  to  pay  long  and  heavily  for  a 
moment's  infatuation. 

But  no  one  for  a  long  time  had  so  deeply 
interested  him,  even  to  agitation,  as  this  hoarse, 
tippling  infantry  captain.  For  a  whole  day 
Schavinsky  did  not  let  him  go.     As  he  sat  by 


60  CAPTAIN  RTBNTKOV 

his  side  in  the  cab  and  watched  him  surrepti- 
tiously, Schavinsky  resolved : 

'  No,  I  can't  be  mistaken ; — this  yellow,  squint- 
ing face  with  the  cheekbones,  these  eternal  bobs 
and  bows,  and  the  incessant  hand  washing ; 
above  all  this  strained,  nervous,  uneasy  famili- 
arity. .  .  .  But  if  it 's  all  true,  and  Captain 
Ribnikov  is  really  a  Japanese  spy,  then  what 
extraordinary  presence  of  mind  the  man  must 
have  to  play  with  this  magnificent  audacity, 
this  diabolically  true  caricature  of  a  broken-down 
officer  in  broad  daylight  in  a  hostile  capital. 
What  awful  sensations  he  must  have,  balanced 
every  second  of  the  day  on  the  very  edge  of 
certain  death  ! ' 

Here  was  something  completely  inexplic- 
able to  Schavinsky — a  fascinating,  mad,  cool 
audacity — perhaps  the  very  noblest  kind  of 
patriotic  devotion.  An  acute  curiosity,  together 
with  a  reverent  fear,  drew  the  journalist's  mind 
more  and  more  strongly  towards  the  soul  of  this 
amazing  captain. 

But  sometimes  he  pulled  himself  up  mentally  : 
'  Suppose  I  've  forced  myself  to  believe  in  a 
ridiculous  preconceived  idea  ?  Suppose  I  've 
just  let  myself  be  fooled  by  a  disreputable 
captain  in  my  inquisitive  eagerness  to  read  men's 
souls  ?  Surely  there  are  any  number  of  yellow 
Mongol  faces  in  the  Ural  or  among  the  Oremburg 
Cossacks.'  Still  more  intently  he  looked  into 
every  motion  and  expression  of  the  captain's 
face,  listened  intently  to  every  sound  of  his  voice. 

Ribnikov  did  not  miss  a  single  soldier  who 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  61 

gave  him  a  salute  as  he  passed.  He  put  his 
hand  to  the  peak  of  his  cap  with  a  pecuharly 
prolonged  and  exaggerated  care.  Whenever 
they  drove  past  a  church  he  invariably  raised  his 
hat  and  crossed  himself  punctiliously  with  a 
broad  sweep  of  his  arm,  and  as  he  did  it  he  gave 
an  almost  imperceptible  side-glance  to  his  com- 
panion— is  he  noticing  or  not  ? 

Once  Schavinsky  could  hold  out  no  longer, 
and  said :  '  But  you  're  pious,  though, 
Captain.' 

Ribnikov  threw  out  his  hands,  hunched  his 
shoulders  up  funnily,  and  said  in  his  hoarse 
voice  :  '  Can't  be  helped,  old  man.  I  've  got 
the  habit  of  it  at  the  Front.  The  man  who 
fights  learns  to  pray,  you  know.  It 's  a 
splendid  Russian  proverb.  You  learn  to  say 
your  prayers  out  there,  ivhether  you  like  it  or 
not.  You  go  into  the  firing  line.  The  bullets 
are  whirring,  terribly — shrapnel,  bombs  .  .  . 
those  cursed  Japanese  shells.  .  .  .  But  it 
can't  be  helped — duty,  your  oath,  and  off  you 
go!  And  you  say  to  yourself:  "Our  Father, 
which  art  in  heaven,  hallowed  be  Thy  name. 
Thy  kingdom  come.  Thy  Will  be  done  in 
earth,  as  it  is  in  heaven  .  .  ."  ' 

And  he  said  the  whole  prayer  to  the  end,  care- 
fully shaping  out  each  sound. 

'  Spy  ! '  Schavinsky  decided. 

But  he  would  not  leave  his  suspicion  half- 
way. For  hours  on  end  he  ivent  on  watching 
and  goading  the  captain.  In  a  private  room 
of  a  restaurant  at  dinner  he  bent  right   over 


62  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

the  table  and  looked  into  Ribnikov's  very 
pupils. 

'  Listen,  Captain.  No  one  can  hear  us  now. 
.  .  .  What 's  the  strongest  oath  I  can  give  you 
that  no  one  will  ever  hear  of  our  conversation  ? 
.  .  .  I  'm  convinced,  absolutely  and  beyond  all 
doubt,  that  you  're  a  Japanese.' 

Ribnikov  banged  himself  on  the  chest  again. 

'  I  am  Capt ' 

'  No,  no.  Let 's  have  done  with  these  tricks. 
You  can't  hide  your  face,  however  clever  you 
are.  The  line  of  your  cheekbones,  the  cut  of 
your  eyes,  your  peculiar  head,  the  colour  of  your 
skin,  the  stiff,  straggling  growth  on  your  face — 
everything  points  beyond  all  shadow  of  doubt 
to  you  belonging  to  the  yellow  race.  But 
you  're  safe.  I  shan't  tell  on  you,  whatever 
offers  they  make  me,  however  they  threaten  me 
for  silence.  I  shan't  do  you  any  harm,  if  it 's 
only  because  I  'm  full  of  admiration  for  your 
amazing  courage.  I  say  more — I  'm  full  of 
reverence,  terror  if  you  like.  I  'm  a  writer — 
that 's  a  man  of  fancy  and  imagination.  I  can't 
even  imagine  how  it 's  possible  for  a  man  to 
make  up  his  mind  to  it :  to  come  thousands  of 
miles  from  your  country  to  a  city  full  of  enemies 
that  hate  you,  risking  your  life  every  second — 
you  '11  be  hanged  without  a  trial  if  you  're 
caught,  I  suppose  you  know  ?  And  then  to  go 
walking  about  in  an  officer's  uniform,  to  enter 
every  possible  kind  of  company,  and  hold  the 
most  dangerous  conversations.  The  least  mis- 
take, one  slip  will  ruin  you  in  a  second.     Half 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  63 

an  hour  ago  you  used  the  word  "  holograph  " 
instead  of  "  manuscript."  A  trifle,  but  very 
characteristic.  An  army  captain  would  never 
use  this  word  of  a  modern  manuscript,  but  only 
of  an  archive  or  a  very  solemn  document.  He 
wouldn't  even  say  "  manuscript,"  but  just  a 
"  book  " — but  these  are  trifles.  But  the  one 
thing  I  don't  understand  is  the  incessant  strain 
of  the  mind  and  will,  the  diabolical  waste  of 
spiritual  strength.  To  forget  to  think  in 
Japanese,  to  forget  your  name  utterly,  to 
identify  yourself  completely  with  another's 
personality — no,  this  is  surely  greater  than  any 
heroism  they  told  us  of  in  school.  My  dear 
man,  don't  try  to  play  with  me.  I  swear  I  'm 
not  your  enemy.' 

He  said  all  this  quite  sincerely,  for  his  whole 
being  was  stirred  to  flame  by  the  heroic  picture 
of  his  imagination.  But  the  captain  would 
not  let  himself  be  flattered.  He  listened  to 
him,  and  stared  with  eyes  slightly  closed  at  his 
glass,  which  he  quietly  moved  over  the  table- 
cloth, and  the  corners  of  his  blue  lips  twisted 
nervously.  And  in  his  face  Schavinsky  re- 
cognised the  same  hidden  mockery,  the  same 
deep,  stubborn,  implacable  hatred,  the  peculiar 
hatred  that  a  European  can  perhaps  never 
understand,  felt  by  a  wise,  cultured,  civilised 
beast,  made  man,  for  a  being  of  another  species. 

'  Keep  your  kindness  in  your  pocket,'  replied 
Ribnikov  carelessly.  '  Let  it  go  to  hell.  They 
teased  me  in  the  regiment  too  with  being  a  Jap. 
Chuck  it !     I  'm  Captain  Ribnikov.     You  know 


64  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

there 's  a  Russian  proverb,  "  The  face  of  a  beast 
with  the  soul  of  a  man."  I  '11  just  tell  you  there 
was  once  a  case  in  our  regiment ' 

'  What  was  your  regiment  ?  '  Schavinsky 
asked  suddenly. 

But  the  captain  seemed  not  to  have  heard. 
He  began  to  tell  the  old,  threadbare  dirty  stories 
that  are  told  in  camp,  on  manoeuvres,  and  in 
barracks,  and  in  spite  of  himself  Schavinsky 
began  to  feel  insulted.  Once  during  the  even- 
ing as  they  sat  in  the  cab  Schavinsky  put  his 
arm  round  his  waist,  and  drew  him  close  and 
said  in  a  low  voice  : 

'  Captain  .  .  .  no.  Colonel,  at  least,  or  you 
луоиЫ  never  have  been  given  such  a  serious 
mission.  Let 's  say  Colonel,  then.  I  do  homage 
to  your  daring,  that  is  to  the  boundless  courage 
of  the  Japanese  nation.  Sometimes  Avhen  I 
read  or  think  of  individual  cases  of  your  dia- 
bolical bravery  and  contempt  of  death,  I  tremble 
with  ecstasy.  What  immortal  beauty,  what 
divine  courage  there  is,  for  instance,  in  the 
action  of  the  captain  of  the  shattered  Avarship 
who  answered  the  call  to  surrender  by  quietly 
lighting  a  cigarette,  and  went  to  the  bottom 
with  a  cigarette  in  his  lips !  What  titanic 
strength,  what  thrilling  contempt  for  the 
enemy  !  And  the  naval  cadets  on  the  fircships 
who  Avent  to  certain  death,  delighted  as  though 
they  were  going  to  a  ball !  And  do  you  re- 
member how  a  lieutenant,  all  by  himself,  towed 
a  torpedo  in  a  boat  at  night  to  make  an  end  of 
the  mole  at  Port  Arthur  ?     The  searchlights 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  65 

were  turned  on  and  all  there  remained  of  the 
lieutenant  and  his  boat  was  a  bloody  stain  on 
the  concrete  wall.  But  the  next  day  all  the 
midshipmen  and  lieutenants  of  the  Japanese 
Fleet  overwhelmed  Admiral  Togo  with  applica- 
tions, offering  to  repeat  the  exploit.  What 
amazing  heroes  !  But  still  more  magnificent  is 
Togo's  order  that  the  officers  under  him  should 
not  so  madly  risk  their  lives,  which  belong  to 
their  country  and  not  to  them.  It 's  danmably 
beautiful,  though ! ' 

'  What 's  this  street  we  're  in  ?  '  interrupted 
Ribnikov,  yawning.  '  After  the  dug-outs  in 
Manchuria  I've  completely  lost  my  sense  of 
direction  in  the  street.  When  we  were  in 
Kharbin.  .  .  .' 

But  the  ecstatic  Schavinsky  went  on,  without 
listening  to  him. 

'  Do  you  remember  the  case  of  an  officer  who 
was  taken  prisoner  and  battered  his  head  to 
pieces  on  a  stone  ?  But  the  most  wonderful 
thing  is  the  signatures  of  the  Samurai.  Of 
course,  you  've  never  heard  of  it.  Captain 
Ribnikov  ? '  Schavinsky  asked  with  sarcastic 
emphasis.  '  It 's  understood,  you  haven't  heard 
of  it.  .  .  .  You  see  General  Nogi  asked  for 
volunteers  to  march  in  the  leading  column  in  a 
night  attack  on  the  Port  Arthur  forts.  Nearly 
the  whole  brigade  offered  themselves  for  this 
honourable  death.  Since  there  were  too  many 
and  they  pressed  in  front  of  each  other  for  the 
opportunity  of  death,  they  had  to  make  applica- 
tion in  writing,  and  some  of  them,  according  to 

Б 


66  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

an  old  custom,  cut  off  the  first  finger  of  their 
left  hand  and  fixed  it  to  their  signature  for  a  seal 
of  blood.     That 's  what  the  Samurai  did  ! ' 

'  Samurai,'  Ribnikov  dully  repeated.  There 
was  a  noise  in  his  throat  as  if  something  had 
snapped  and  spread.  Schavinsky  gave  a  quick 
glance  to  his  profile.  An  expression  such  as  he 
had  never  seen  in  the  captain's  face  before 
suddenly  played  about  his  mouth  and  on  his 
chin,  which  trembled  once  ;  and  his  eyes  began 
to  shine  with  the  warm,  tremulous  light  which 
gleams  through  sudden,  brimming  tears.  But  he 
pulled  himself  together  instantly,  shut  his  eyes 
for  a  second,  and  turned  a  naive  and  stupid  face 
to  Schavinsky,  and  suddenly  uttered  a  long, 
filthy,  Russian  oath. 

'  Captain,  Captain,  what 's  the  matter  with 
you  ?  '  Schavinsky  cried,  almost  in  fright. 

'  That 's  all  newspaper  lies,'  Ribnikov  said 
unconcernedly.  '  Our  Russian  Tommy  is  not 
a  bit  behind.  There  's  a  difference,  of  course. 
They  fight  for  their  life,  however,  independence 
— and  what  have  we  mixed  ourselves  up  in  it 
for  ?  Nobody  knows  !  The  devil  alone  knows 
why.  "  There  was  no  sorrow  till  the  devil 
pumped  it  up,"  as  we  say  in  Russian.  What ! 
Ha,  ha,  ha  ! ' 

On  the  race-course  the  sport  distracted 
Schavinsky' s  attention  a  Uttle,  and  he  could  not 
observe  the  captain  all  the  while.  But  in  the 
intervals  between  the  events,  he  saw  him  every 
movr  and  then  in  one  or  another  of  the  stands, 
upstairs  or  downstairs,  in  the  buffet  or  by  the 


CAPTAIN  RIBN4K0V  67 

pari-7nutuel.  That  day  the  word  Tsushima  was 
on  everybody's  lips — backers,  jockeys,  book- 
makers, even  the  mysterious,  ragged  beings  that 
are  inevitable  on  every  race-course.  The  word 
was  used  to  jeer  at  a  beaten  horse,  by  men  who 
were  annoyed  at  losing,  with  indifferent  laughter 
and  лvith  bitterness.  Here  and  there  it  was 
uttered  with  passion.  Schavinsky  saw  from  a 
distance  how  the  captain  in  his  easy,  confident 
way  picked  a  quarrel  with  one  man,  shook  hands 
with  others,  and  tapped  others  on  the  shoulder. 
His  small,  limping  figure  appeared  and  dis- 
appeared everywhere. 

From  the  races  they  drove  to  a  restaurant, 
and  from  there  to  Schavinsky' s  house.  The 
journalist  Avas  rather  ashamed  of  his  role  of 
voluntary  detective ;  but  he  felt  it  was  out  of 
his  power  to  throw  it  up,  though  he  had  already 
begun  to  feel  tired,  and  his  head  ached  with  the 
strain  of  this  stealthy  struggle  with  another 
man's  soul.  Convinced  that  flattery  had  been 
of  no  avail,  he  now  tried  to  draw  the  captain  to 
frankness,  by  teasing  and  rousing  his  feelings  of 
patriotism. 

'  Still,  I  'm  sorry  for  these  poor  Japs,'  he  said 
лvith  ironical  pity.  '  When  all  is  said,  Japan 
has  exhausted  all  her  national  genius  in  this  war. 
In  my  opinion  she  's  like  a  feeble  little  man 
who  lifts  a  half  dozen  hundredweight  on  his 
shoulders,  either  in  ecstasy  or  intoxication,  or 
out  of  mere  bravado,  and  strains  his  insides,  and 
is  already  beginning  to  die  a  lingering  death. 
You  see  Russia 's  an  entirely  different  country. 


68  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

She 's  a  Colossus.  To  her  the  Manchurian  defeats 
are  just  the  same  as  cupping  a  full-blooded  man. 
You  '11  see  how  she  will  recover  and  begin  to 
blossom  when  the  war  is  over.  But  Japan  will 
Avither  and  die.  She 's  strained  herself.  Don't 
tell  me  they  have  civilisation,  universal  educa- 
tion, European  technique :  at  the  end  of  it  all, 
a  Japanese  is  an  Asiatic,  half-man,  half-monkey. 
Even  in  type  he  approaches  a  Bushman,  a 
Touareg,  or  a  Blackfellow.  You  have  only  to 
look  at  his  facial  angle.  It  all  comes  to  this, 
they  're  just  Japs  !  It  wasn't  your  civilisation 
or  your  political  youth  that  conquered  us  at  all, 
but  simply  a  fit  of  madness.  Do  you  know 
what  a  seizure  is,  a  fit  of  frenzy  ?  A  feeble 
w^oman  tears  chains  to  pieces  and  tosses  strong 
men  about  like  straws.  The  next  day  she  hasn't 
even  the  poAver  to  lift  her  hand.  It 's  the  same 
with  Japan.  Believe  me,  after  the  heroic  fit 
Mill  follow  impotence  and  decay  ;  but  certainly 
before  that  she  will  pass  through  a  stage  of 
national  swagger,  outrageous  militarism  and 
insane  Chauvinism.' 

'  Really  ?  '  cried  Ribnikov  in  stupid  rapture. 
*  You  can't  get  away  from  the  truth.  Shake 
hands,  Mr.  Author.  You  can  always  tell  a 
clever  man  at  once.' 

He  laughed  hoarsely,  spat  about,  tapped 
Schavinsky's  knee,  and  shook  his  hand,  and 
Schavinsky  suddenly  felt  ashamed  of  himself 
and  the  tricks  of  his  stealthy  searching  into 
human  souls. 

'  What  if  I  'm  mistaken  and  this  Ribnikov  is 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  69 

only  the  truest  type  of  the  drunken  infantry- 
man. No,  it 's  impossible.  But  if  it  is  possible, 
then  what  a  fool  I  'm  making  of  myself,  my 
God!* 

At  his  house  he  showed  the  captain  his  library, 
his  rare  engravings,  a  collection  of  old  china, 
and  a  couple  of  small  Siberian  dogs.  His  wife, 
who  played  small  parts  in  musical  comedy,  was 
out  of  town.  Ribnikov  examined  everjrthing 
with  a  polite,  uninterested  curiosity,  in  which 
his  host  caught  something  like  boredom,  and 
even  cold  contempt.  Ribnikov  casually  opened 
a  magazine  and  read  some  lines  aloud. 

'  He 's  made  a  blunder  now,'  Schavinsky 
thought,  Avhen  he  heard  his  extraordinary 
correct  and  wooden  reading,  each  separate  letter 
pronounced  with  exaggerated  precision  like  the 
head  boy  in  a  French  class  showing  off.  Evi- 
dently Ribnikov  noticed  it  himself,  for  he  soon 
shut  the  book  and  asked  : 

*  But  you  're  a  writer  yourself  ?  ' 

'  Yes.  ...  I  do  a  bit.' 

'  What  newspapers  do  you  write  for  ?  ' 

Schavinsky  named  them.  It  was  the  sixth 
time  he  had  been  asked  the  question  that  day. 

'  Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes.  I  forgot,  I  've  asked  you 
before.     D'  you  know  what,  Mr.  Author  ?  ' 

'  What  is  it  ?  ' 

'  Let  us  do  this.  You  write  and  I  '11  dictate. 
That  is,  I  won't  dictate  .  .  .  oh,  no,  I  shall 
never  dare.'  Ribnikov  rubbed  his  hands  and 
bowed  hurriedly.  '  You  '11  compose  it  yourself, 
of  course.     I  '11  only  give  you  some  thoughts 


70  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

and — what  shall  I  call  them — reminiscences  of 
the  war  ?  Oh,  what  a  lot  of  interesting  copy  I 
have !  .  .  .' 

Schavinsky  sat  sideways  on  the  table  and 
glanced  at  the  captain,  cunningly  screwing  up 
one  eye. 

'  Of  course,  I  shall  give  your  name  ?  ' 

'  Why,  you  may.  I  've  no  objection.  Put 
it  like  this  :  "  This  information  was  supplied 
to  me  by  Captain  Ribnikov  who  has  just  re- 
turned from  the  Front."  ' 

'  Very  well.     Why  do  you  want  this  ?  ' 

'  What  ?  ' 

*  Having  your  name  in  it.  Do  you  want  it 
for  future  evidence  that  you  inspired  the 
Russian  newspapers  ?  What  a  clever  fellow,  I 
am,  eh  ?  ' 

But  the  captain  avoided  a  direct  answer,  as 
usual. 

'  But  perhaps  you  haven't  time  ?  You  are 
engaged  in  other  work.  Well,  let  the  re- 
miniscences go  to  hell !  You  won't  be  able  to 
tell  the  whole  story.  As  they  say  :  "  There  's  a 
difference  between  living  a  life  and  crossing  a 
field."     Eh,  what  ?     Ha,  ha,  ha  ! ' 

An  interesting  fancy  came  into  Schavinsky's 
head.  In  his  study  stood  a  big,  white  table  of 
unpainted  ash.  On  the  clean  virgin  surface  of 
this  table  all  Schavinsky's  friends  used  to  leave 
their  autographs  in  the  shape  of  aphorisms, 
verses,  drawings,  and  even  notes  of  music.  He 
said  to  Ribnikov  :  '  See,  here  is  my  autograph- 
book,   Captain.      Won't  you  write   me  some- 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  71 

thing  in  memory  of  our  pleasant  meeting, 
and  our  acquaintance  which ' — Schavinsky 
bowed  poHtely — '  I  venture  to  hope  will  not 
be  short-lived  ?  ' 

'  With  pleasure,'  Ribnikov  readily  agreed. 
'  Something  from  Pushkin  or  Gogol  ?  ' 

'  No  .  .  .  far  better  something  of  your  own.' 

'  Of  my  own  ?     Splendid.' 

He  took  the  pen  and  dipped  it,  thought  and 
prepared  to  write,  but  Schavinsky  suddenly 
stopped  him. 

'  We  'd  better  do  this.  Here  's  a  piece  of  a 
paper.  There  are  drawing-pins  in  the  box  at 
the  corner.  Please  write  something  particularly 
interesting  and  then  cover  it  with  the  paper  and 
fasten  the  corners  with  the  drawing-pins.  I  give 
you  my  word  of  honour  as  an  author,  that  for 
two  months  I  won't  put  a  finger  on  the  paper 
and  won't  look  at  what  you've  written.  Is 
that  all  right  ?  Well,  write  then.  I  '11  go  out 
of  the  room  so  as  not  to  hinder  you.' 

After  five  minutes  Ribnikov  shouted  to  him : 
'  Please  come  in.' 

'  Ready  ?  '  Schavinsky  asked,  entering. 

Ribnikov  drew  himself  up,  put  his  hand  to  his 
forehead  in  salute  and  shouted  like  a  soldier : 
'  Very  good,  sir.' 

'  Thanks.  Now  we  '11  go  to  the  "  Buff,"  or 
somewhere  else,'  Schavinsky  said.  '  There  we  '11 
think  what  we  '11  do  next.  I  shan't  let  you  out 
of  my  sight  to-day,  Captain.' 

'  With  the  greatest  pleasure,'  Ribnikov  said  in 
a  hoarse  bass,  clicking  his  heels.     He  lifted  up 


72  CAPTAIN  ETBNIKOV 

his  shoulders  and  gave  a  military  twist  to  his 
moustaches  on  either  side. 

But  Sehavinsky,  against  his  own  will,  did  not 
keep  his  word.  At  the  last  moment  before 
leaving  his  house  the  journalist  remembered 
that  he  had  left  his  cigarette-case  in  the  study 
and  went  back  for  it,  leaving  Ribnikov  in  the 
hall.  The  piece  of  white  paper,  carefully 
fastened  with  drawing-pins,  aroused  his  curiosity. 
He  could  not  resist  the  temptation  ;  he  turned 
back  stealthily  and  after  lifting  a  corner  of  the 
paper  quickly  read  the  words  \NTitten  in  a  thin, 
distinct  and  extraordinary  elegant  hand  : 

'  Though  you  are  Ivanov  the  seventh,  you  're 
a  fool  all  the  same.' 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  73 


IV 

Long  after  midnight  they  were  coming  out  of 
a  suburban  cafe  chantant  accompanied  by  the 
well-known  musical  comedy  actor  Zhenin-Lirsky, 
the  young  assistant  Crown-Prosecutor  Sashka 
Strahlmann,  who  was  famous  all  over  Petersburg 
for  his  incomparable  skill  in  telling  amusing 
stories  about  the  topic  of  the  day,  and  Karyukov, 
the  merchant's  son,  a  patron  of  the  arts. 

It  was  neither  bright  nor  dark.  It .  was  a 
warm,  white,  transparent  night,  with  soft 
chatoyant  colours  and  water  like  mother-of-pearl 
in  the  calm  canals,  which  plainly  reflected  the 
grey  stone  of  the  quay  and  the  motionless  foliage 
of  the  trees.  The  sky  was  pale  as  though  tired 
and  sleepless,  and  there  were  sleepy  clouds  in 
the  sky,  long,  thin  and  woolly  like  clews  of 
ravelled  cotton-wool. 

'  Where  shall  we  go,  now  ?  '  said  Schavinsky, 
stopping  at  the  gate  of  the  gardens.  *  Field- 
Marshal  Oyama !  Give  us  your  enlightened 
opinion.' 

All  five  lingered  on  the  pavement  for  a  while, 
caught  by  a  moment  of  the  usual  early  morning 
indecision,  when  the  physical  fatigue  of  the 
reveller  struggles  with  the  irresistible  and  irritat- 
ing yearning  after  new  and  piquant  sensations. 
From   the   garden   continually   came   patrons, 


74  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

laughing,  whistling,  noisily  shuffling  their  feet 
over  the  dry,  white  cobble-stones.  Walking 
hurriedly,  boldly  rustling  the  silk  of  their  petti- 
coats emerged  the  artistes  wearing  huge  hats, 
with  diamonds  trembling  in  their  ears,  escorted 
by  dashing  gentlemen,  smartly  dressed,  with 
flowers  in  their  buttonholes.  With  the  porters' 
respectful  assistance  these  ladies  fluttered  into 
carriages  and  panting  automobiles,  freely  arrang- 
ing their  dresses  round  their  legs,  and  flew  away 
holding  the  brims  of  their  hats  in  their  hands. 
The  chorus-girls  and  the  filles  du  jardin  of  the 
higher  class  drove  off  alone  or  two  together  in 
ordinary  cabs  with  a  man  beside  them.  The 
ordinary  women  of  the  street  appeared  every- 
where at  once,  going  round  the  wooden  fence, 
following  close  on  the  men  who  left  on  foot, 
giving  special  attention  to  the  drunken.  They 
ran  beside  the  men  for  a  long  while,  offering 
themselves  in  a  whisper  лvith  impudent  sub- 
missiveness,  naming  that  which  луаз  their  pro- 
fession with  blunt,  coarse,  terrible  words.  In 
the  bright,  white  twilight  of  May,  their  faces 
seemed  like  coarse  masks,  blue  from  the 
white  of  their  complexions,  red  лvith  crimson 
colour,  and  one's  eyes  were  struck  with  the 
blackness,  the  thickness  and  the  extraordinary 
curve  of  their  eyebrows.  These  naively  bright 
colours  made  the  yellow  of  their  лvrinkled 
temples  appear  all  the  more  pitiable,  their  thin, 
scraggy  necks,  and  flabby,  feeble  chins.  A  couple 
of  mounted  policemen,  obscenely  swearing,  rode 
them  down  now  and  then  with  their  horses' 


CAPTAIN  BIBNIKOV  75 

mouths  afoam.  The  girls  screamed,  ran  away, 
and  clutched  at  the  sleeves  of  the  passers-by. 
Near  the  railing  of  the  canal  was  gathered  a 
group  of  about  twenty  men — it  was  the  usual 
early  morning  scandal.  A  short,  beardless  boy 
of  an  officer  луаз  dead-drunk  and  making  a  fuss, 
looking  as  though  he  wanted  to  draлv  his  sword  ; 
a  policeman  was  assuring  him  of  something  in  a 
convincing  falsetto  with  his  hand  on  his  heart. 

A  sharp,  suspicious-looking  type,  drunk,  in  a 
cap  with  a  ragged  peak,  spoke  in  a  sugary, 
obsequious  voice  ;  '  Spit  on  'em,  yer  honour. 
They  ain't  worth  looking  at.  Give  me  one  in 
the  jaw,  if  you  like.  Allow  me  to  kiss  yer 
'and.' 

A  thin,  stern  gentleman  at  the  back,  whose 
thick,  black  луЬ15кегз  could  alone  be  seen,  be- 
cause his  bowler  was  tilted  over  his  face,  drawled 
in  a  low,  indistinct  voice :  '  What  do  you 
stand  about  talking  for  ?  Pitch  him  into  the 
>vater  and  have  done  with  it ! ' 

'  But  really.  Major  Fukushima,'  said  the  actor, 
'  we  must  put  a  decent  finish  to  the  day  of  our 
pleasant  acquaintance.  Let 's  go  off  with  the 
little  ladies.     Where  shall  it  be,  Sashka  ?  ' 

'  Bertha  ?  '  Strahlmann  asked  in  reply. 

Ribnikov  giggled  and  rubbed  his  hands  in 
joyful  agitation. 

'  Women  ?  "  Even  a  Jew  hanged  himself  for 
company's  sake,"  as  the  Russian  proverb  says. 
Where  the  луогк!  goes  there  go  we.  Eh,  what  ? 
"  If  we  're  going,  let 's  go,"  as  the  parrot  said. 
What  ?     Ha,  ha,  ha  ! ' 


76  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

Schavinsky  had  introduced  him  to  the  young 
men,  and  they  had  all  had  supper  in  the  cafe 
chantant,  listened  to  the  Roumanian  singers, 
drinking  champagne  and  liqueurs.  At  one  time 
they  found  it  amusing  to  call  Ribnikov  by  the 
names  of  different  Japanese  generals,  particu- 
larly because  the  captain's  good  nature  was 
evidently  unlimited.  Schavinsky  it  was  who 
began  this  rude,  familiar  game.  True  he  felt  at 
times  that  he  was  behaving  in  an  ugly,  perhaps 
even  treacherous,  way  to  Ribnikov,  but  he 
calmed  his  conscience  by  the  fact  that  he  had 
not  breathed  a  word  of  his  suspicions,  which 
never  entered  his  friends'  heads  at  all. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  evening  he  was  watch- 
ing Ribnikov.  The  captain  was  noisier  and 
more  talkative  than  anybody :  he  was  in- 
cessantly drinking  healths,  jumping  up,  sitting 
down,  pouring  the  wine  over  the  tablecloth, 
lighting  his  cigarette  the  wrong  end.  Neverthe- 
less, Schavinsky  noticed  that  he  was  drinking 
very  little. 

Ribnikov  had  to  sit  next  the  journalist  again 
in  the  cab.  Schavinsky  was  almost  sober.  He 
was  generally  distinguished  for  a  hard  head  in 
a  spree,  but  it  was  light  and  noisy  now,  as 
though  the  foam  of  the  champagne  was  bubbling 
in  it.  He  gave  the  captain  a  side-glance.  In 
the  uncertain,  drowsy  light  of  the  white  night 
Ribnikov' s  face  wore  a  dark,  earthy  complexion. 
All  the  hollows  were  sharp  and  black,  the  little 
wrinkles  on  his  forehead  and  the  lines  round 
his    nose    and    mouth    were    deepened.      The 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  77 

captain  himself  sat  with  a  weary  stoop,  his  hands 
tucked  into  the  sleeves  of  his  uniform,  breathing 
heavily  through  his  open  mouth.  Altogether 
it  gave  him  a  worn,  suffering  look.  Schavinsky 
could  even  smell  his  breath,  and  thought  that 
gamblers  after  several  nights  at  cards  have  just 
the  same  stale,  sour  breath  as  men  tired  out  with 
insomnia  or  the  strain  of  long  brain  work.  A 
лvave  of  kindly  emotion  and  pity  welled  up  in 
Schavinsky' s  heart.  The  captain  suddenly  ap- 
peared to  him  very  small,  utterly  worn  out, 
affecting  and  pitiable.  He  embraced  Ribnikov, 
drew  him  close,  and  said  affably  :  '  Very  well. 
Captain,  I  surrender.  I  can't  do  anything 
with  you,  and  I  apologise  if  I  've  given  you 
some  uncomfortable  minutes.  Give  me  your 
hand.' 

He  unfastened  the  rose  he  wore  in  his  coat 
which  a  girl  in  the  garden  had  made  him  buy, 
and  fixed  it  in  the  buttonhole  of  the  captain's 
great-coat. 

'  This  is  my  peace-offering,  Captain.  We 
won't  tease  each  other  any  more.' 

The  cab  drew  up  at  a  two-storied  stone  house 
standing  apart  in  a  pleasant  approach.  All  the 
windows  were  shuttered.  The  others  had  gone 
in  advance  and  were  waiting  for  them.  A 
square  grille,  a  handsbreadth  wide,  set  in  the 
heavy  door,  was  opened  from  inside,  and  a  pair 
of  cold,  searching  grey  eyes  appeared  in  it  for  a 
few  seconds.     Then  the  door  was  opened. 

This  establishment  was  something  between 
an   expensive   brothel   and   a   luxurious   club. 


78  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

There  was  an  elegant  entrance,  a  stuffed  bear 
in  the  hall,  carpets,  silk  curtains  and  lustre- 
chandeliers,  and  lackeys  in  evening  dress  and 
white  gloves.  Men  came  here  to  finish  the  night 
after  the  restaurants  were  shut.  Cards  were 
played,  expensive  wines  kept,  and  there  was 
always  a  generous  supply  of  fresh,  pretty  women 
who  were  often  changed. 

They  had  to  go  up  to  the  first  floor,  where  was 
a  wide  landing  adorned  by  palms  in  tubs  and 
separated  from  the  stairs  by  a  balustrade. 
Schavinsky  went  upstairs  arm-in-arm  with 
Ribnikov.  Though  he  had  promised  himself 
that  he  would  not  tease  him  any  more,  he  could 
not  restrain  himself :  '  Let 's  mount  the  scaffold. 
Captain  ! ' 

'  I  'm  not  afraid,'  said  he  lazily.  '  I  walk  up 
to  death  every  day  of  my  life.' 

Ribnikov  waved  his  hand  feebly  and  smiled 
with  constraint.  The  smile  made  his  face 
suddenly  weary,  grey  and  old. 

Schavinsky  gave  him  a  look  of  silent  surprise. 
He  was  ashamed  of  his  importunity.  But 
Ribnikov  passed  it  off  immediately. 

'  Yes,  to  death  ...  A  soldier 's  always  ready 
for  it.  There  's  nothing  to  be  done.  Death  is 
the  trifling  inconvenience  attached  to  our  pro- 
fession.' 

Schavinsky  and  Karyukov  the  art-patron 
were  assiduous  guests  and  honoured  habitues 
of  the  house.  They  were  greeted  with  pleasant 
smiles  and  low  bows. 

A  big,  warm   cabinet  was  given  them,  in  red 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  79 

and  gold  with  a  thick,  bright  green  carpet  on  the 
floor,  with  sconces  in  the  corners  and  on  the 
table.  They  were  brought  champagne,  fruit  and 
bonbons.  Women  came — three  at  first,  then 
two  more — then  they  were  passing  in  and  out 
continually.  Without  exception  they  were 
pretty,  well  provided  with  bare,  white  arms, 
neck,  bosom,  in  bright,  expensive,  glittering 
dresses.  Some  wore  ballet  skirts  ;  one  was  in 
a  schoolgirl's  brown  uniform,  another  in  tight 
riding-breeches  and  a  jockey's  cap.  A  stout 
elderly  lady  in  black  also  came,  rather  like  a 
landlady  or  a  housekeeper.  Her  appearance 
was  decent ;  her  face  flabby  and  yellow.  She 
laughed  continually  the  pleasant  laugh  of  an 
elderly  woman,  coughed  continually  and  smoked 
incessantly.  She  behaved  to  Schavinsky,  the 
actor,  and  the  art-patron  with  the  uncon- 
strained coquetterie  of  a  lady  old  enough  to  be 
their  mother,  flicking  their  hands  with  her  hand- 
kerchief, and  she  called  Strahlmann,  лу110  was 
evidently  her  favourite,  Sashka. 

'  General  Kuroki,  let 's  drink  to  the  success 
of  the  grand  Manchurian  army.  You  '11  be 
getting  mildewy,  sitting  in  your  corner,'  said 
Karyukov. 

Schavinsky  interrupted  him  with  a  yawn  : 
'  Steady,  gentlemen.  I  think  you  ought  to  be 
bored  with  it  by  now.  You  're  just  abusing 
the  captain's  good  nature.' 

'  I  'm  not  offended,'  repHed  Ribnikov. 
'  Gentlemen  !  Let  us  drink  the  health  of  our 
charming  ladies.' 


80  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

'  Sing  us  something,  Lirsky  ! '  Schavinsky 
asked. 

The  actor  cheerfully  sat  down  to  the  piano 
and  began  a  gipsy  song.  It  was  more  recitation 
than  singing.  He  never  moved  the  cigar  from 
his  lips,  stared  at  the  ceiling,  лvith  a  parade  of 
swinging  to  and  fro  on  his  chair.  The  women 
joined  in,  loud  and  out  of  tune.  Each  one  tried 
to  race  the  others  with  the  words.  Then 
Sashka  Strahlmann  gave  an  admirable  imitation 
of  a  gramophone,  impersonated  an  Italian  opera, 
and  mimicked  animals.  Karyukov  danced  a 
fandango  and  called  for  bottle  after  bottle. 

He  was  the  first  to  disappear  from  the 
room,  with  a  red-haired  Polish  girl.  After  him 
followed  Strahlmann  and  the  actor.  Only 
Schavinsky  remained,  with  a  swarthy,  white- 
toothed  Hungarian  girl  on  his  knees,  and 
Ribnikov,  by  the  side  of  a  tall  blonde  in  a  blue 
satin  blouse,  cut  square  and  open  half-way  down 
her  breast. 

'  Well,  Captain,  let 's  say  good-bye  for  a  little 
while,'  said  Schavinsky,  getting  up  and  stretch- 
ing himself.  '  It 's  late — we  'd  better  say  early. 
Come  and  have  breakfast  with  me  at  one  o'clock, 
Captain.  Put  the  wine  down  to  Karyukov, 
Madame.  If  he  loves  sacred  art,  then  he  can 
pay  for  the  honour  of  having  supper  with  its 
priests.     Mes  compliments  Г 

The  blonde  put  her  bare  arm  round  the 
captain's  neck  and  kissed  him,  and  said  simply  : 
*  Let  us  go  too,  darling.     It  really  is  late.' 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  81 


V 

She  had  a  little  gay  room  with  a  bright  blue 
paper,  a  pale  blue  hanging  lamp.  On  the  toilet- 
table  stood  a  round  mirror  in  a  frame  of  light 
blue  satin.  There  were  two  oleographs  on  one 
wall,  '  Girls  Bathing '  and  '  The  Royal  Bride- 
groom,' on  the  other  a  hanging,  with  a  wide 
brass  bed  alongside. 

The  woman  undressed,  and  with  a  sense  of 
pleasant  relief  passed  her  hands  over  her  body, 
where  her  chemise  had  been  folded  under  her 
corset.  Then  she  turned  the  lamp  down  and 
sat  on  the  bed,  and  began  calmly  to  unlace  her 
boots. 

Ribnikov  sat  by  the  table  with  his  elbows 
apart  and  his  head  resting  in  his  hands.  He 
could  not  tear  his  eyes  from  her  big,  handsome 
legs  and  plump  calves,  which  her  black,  trans- 
parent stockings  so  closely  fitted. 

'  Why  don't  you  undress,  officer  ?  '  the  woman 
asked.  '  Tell  me,  darling,  why  do  they  call  you 
Japanese  General  ?  ' 

Ribnikov  gave  a  laugh,  with  his  eyes  still 
fixed  upon  her  legs. 

'  Oh,  it 's  just  nonsense.  Only  a  joke.  Do 
you  know  the  verses  : 

"  It  hardly  can  be  called  a  sin, 
If  something 's  funny  and  yoxi  grin  !...'" 
F 


82  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

'  Will  you  stand  me  some  champagne,  darling. 
.  .  .  Since  you  're  so  stingy,  oranges  will  do. 
Are  you  going  soon  or  staying  the  night  ?  ' 

'  Staying  the  night.     Come  to  me.' 

She  lay  down  with  him,  hastily  threw  her 
cigarette  over  on  to  the  floor  and  wriggled  be- 
neath the  blanket. 

'  Do  you  like  to  be  next  to  the  wall  ? '  she  asked. 
'  Do  if  you  want  to.  0-oh,  how  cold  your  legs 
are  !  You  know  I  love  army  men.  What 's 
your  name  ?  ' 

'  Mine  ?  '  He  coughed  and  answered  in  an 
uncertain  tone :  '  I  am  Captain  Ribnikov. 
Vassily  Alexandrovich  Ribnikov  ! ' 

'  Ah,  Vasya  !  I  have  a  friend  called  Vasya, 
a  little  chap  from  the  Lycee.  Oh,  what  a  darling 
he  is  ! ' 

She  began  to  sing,  pretending  to  shiver  under 
the  bedclothes,  laughing  and  half-closing  her 
eyes  : 

'  "■  Vasya,  Vasya,  Vasinke, 

It 's  a  tale  you  're  telling  me." 

*  You  are  like  a  Japanese,  you  know,  by  Jove. 
Do  you  know  who  ?  The  Mikado.  We  take 
in  the  Niva  and  there  's  a  picture  of  him  there. 
It 's  late  now — else  I  'd  get  it  to  show  you. 
You  're  as  like  as  two  peas.' 

'  I  'm  very  glad,'  said  Ribnikov,  quietly 
kissing  her  smooth,  round  shoulder. 

'  Perhaps  you  're  really  a  Japanese  ?  They 
say  you  've  been  at  the  war.  Is  it  true  ? 
0-oh,  darling,  I  'm  afraid  of  being  tickled — 
Is  it  dreadful  at  the  war  ?  ' 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  88 

'  Dreadful  .  .  .  no,  not  particularly.  .  .  . 
Don't  let 's  talk  about  it/  he  said  wearily. 
*  What 's  your  name  ?  ' 

'  Clotilde.  .  .  .  No,  I  '11  tell  you  a  secret. 
My  name 's  Nastya.  They  only  called  me 
Clotilde  here  because  my  name 's  so  ugly. 
Nastya,  Nastasya — sounds  like  a  cook.' 

'  Nastya,'  he  repeated  musingly,  and 
cautiously  kissed  her  breast.  '  No,  it 's  a  nice 
name.     Na — stya,'  he  repeated  slowly. 

'  What  is  there  nice  about  it  ?  Malvina, 
Wanda,  Zhenia,  they  're  nice  names — especially 
Irma.  .  .  .  Oh,  darling,'  and  she  pressed  close 
to  him.  '  You  are  a  dear  ...  so  dark.  I  love 
dark  men.     You  're  married,  surely  ?  ' 

'  No,  I  'm  not.' 

' Oh,  tell  us  another.  Every  one  here  says  he's 
a  bachelor.     You  've  got  six  children  for  sure ! ' 

It  was  dark  in  the  room,  for  the  windows  were 
shuttered  and  the  lamp  hardly  burned.  Her 
face  was  quite  close  to  his  head,  and  showed 
fantastic  and  changing  on  the  dim  whiteness  of 
the  pillow.  Already  it  was  different  from  the 
simple,  handsome,  round  grey-eyed,  Russian  face 
of  before.  It  seemed  to  have  grown  thinner, 
and,  strangely  changing  its  expression  every 
minute,  seemed  now  tender,  kind,  mysterious. 
It  reminded  Ribnikov  of  some  one  infinitely 
familiar,  long  beloved,  beautiful  and  fascinating. 

'  How  beautiful  you  are  ! '  he  murmured.  '  I 
love  you.  ...  I  love  you.  .  .  .' 

He  suddenly  uttered  an  unintelligible  word, 
completely  foreign  to  the  woman's  ear. 


84  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

*  What  did  you  say  ?  '  she  asked  in  surprise. 

'  Nothing.  .  .  .  Nothing.  .  .  .  Nothing  at 
all.  .  .  .  My  dear  !  Dear  woman  .  .  .  you  are 
a  woman  ...  I  love  you.  .  .  .' 

He  kissed  her  arms,  her  neck,  trembling  with 
impatience,  which  it  gave  him  wonderful  delight 
to  suppress.  He  was  possessed  by  a  tender  and 
tempestuous  passion  for  the  well-fed,  childless 
woman,  for  her  big  young  body,  so  cared  for 
and  beautiful.  His  longing  for  woman  had  been 
till  now  suppressed  by  his  austere,  ascetic  life, 
his  constant  weariness,  by  the  intense  exertion 
of  his  mind  and  will :  now  it  devoured  him 
suddenly  with  an  intolerable,  intoxicating  flame. 

'  Your  hands  are  cold,'  she  said,  awkward 
and  shy.  In  this  man  was  something  strange 
and  alarming  which  she  could  in  no  way  under- 
stand.    '  Cold  hands  and  a  warm  heart.' 

'  Yes,  yes,  yes.  .  .  .  My  heart,'  he  repeated 
it  like  a  madman,  '  My  heart  is  warm,  my 
heart  .  .  .' 

Long  ago  she  had  grown  used  to  the  outward 
rites  and  the  shameful  details  of  love  ;  she  per- 
formed them  several  times  every  day — mechani- 
cally, indifferently,  and  often  with  silent  disgust. 
Hundreds  of  men,  from  the  aged  and  old,  who 
put  their  teeth  in  a  glass  of  лvater  for  the  night, 
to  youngsters  whose  voice  was  only  beginning 
to  break  and  was  bass  and  soprano  at  once, 
civilians,  army  men,  priests  in  mufti,  baldheads 
and  men  overgrown  with  hair  from  head  to  foot 
like  monkeys,  excited  and  impotent,  morpho- 
maniacs  who  did  not  conceal  their  vice  from  her. 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  85 

beaux,  cripples,  rakes,  who  sometimes  nauseated 
her,  boys  who  cried  for  the  bitterness  of  their 
first  fall — they  all  embraced  her  лvith  shameful 
words,  лvith  long  kisses,  breathed  into  her  face, 
moaned  in  the  paroxysm  of  animal  passion, 
which,  she  knew  beforehand,  would  then  and 
there  be  changed  to  unconcealed  and  insuper- 
able disgust.  Long  ago  all  men's  faces  had  in 
her  eyes  lost  every  individual  trait — as  though 
they  had  united  into  one  lascivious,  inevitable 
face,  eternally  bent  over  her,  the  face  of  a  he- 
goat  with  stubbly,  slobbering  lips,  clouded  eyes, 
dimmed  like  frosted  glass,  distorted  and  dis- 
figured by  a  voluptuous  grimace,  which  sickened 
her  because  she  never  shared  it. 

Besides,  they  were  all  rude,  exacting  and 
devoid  of  the  elements  of  shame.  They  were 
ludicrously  ugly,  as  only  the  modern  man  can 
be  in  his  underclothes.  But  this  elderly  little 
officer  made  a  new,  peculiar,  attractive  impres- 
sion on  her.  His  every  movement  was  dis- 
tinguished by  a  gentle,  insinuating  discretion. 
His  kiss,  his  caress,  and  his  touch  were  strangely 
gentle.  At  the  same  time  he  surrounded  her 
imperceptibly  with  the  nervous  atmosphere  of 
real  and  intense  passion  лvhich  even  from  a 
distance  and  against  her  will  arouses  a  woman's 
sensuality,  makes  her  docile,  and  subject  to  the 
male's  desire.  But  her  poor  little  mind  had 
never  passed  beyond  the  round  of  everyday  life 
in  the  house,  and  could  not  perceive  this  strange 
and  agitating  spell.  She  could  only  whisper  shyly, 
happy  and  surprised,  the  usual  trivial  words  : 


86  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

'  What  a  nice  man  you  are !  You  're  my 
sweet,  aren't  you  ?  ' 

She  got  up,  put  the  lamp  out,  and  lay  beside 
him  again.  Through  the  chinks  between  the 
shutters  and  the  wall  showed  thin  threads  of  the 
whitening  dawn,  which  filled  the  room  with  a 
misty  blue  half-light.  Behind  the  partition, 
somewhere  an  alarm-clock  hurriedly  rang.  Far 
away  some  one  was  singing  sadly  in  the  distance. 

*  When  will  you  come  again  ?  '  the  woman 
asked. 

'  What  ?  '  Ribnikov  asked  sleepily,  opening 
his  eyes.  '  When  am  I  coming  ?  Soon — to- 
morrow. .  .  .' 

'  I  know  all  about  that.  Tell  me  the  truth. 
When  are  you  coming  ?  I  '11  be  lonely  without 
you.' 

'  M'm.  .  .  .  We  will  come  and  be  alone.  .  .  . 
We  will  write  to  them.  They  will  stay  in  the 
mountains  .  .  .'  he  murmured  incoherently. 

A  heavy  slumber  enlocked  his  body  ;  but,  as 
always  with  men  who  have  long  deprived  them- 
selves of  sleep,  he  could  not  sleep  at  once.  No 
sooner  was  his  consciousness  overcast  with  the 
soft,  dark,  delightful  cloud  of  oblivion  than  his 
body  was  shaken  by  a  terrible  inward  shock. 
He  moaned  and  shuddered,  opened  his  eyes  wide 
in  wild  terror,  and  straightway  plunged  into  an 
irritating,  transitory  state  between  sleep  and 
wakefulness,  like  a  delirium  crowded  with 
threatening  and  confused  visions. 

The  woman  had  no  desire  to  sleep.  She  sat 
up  in  bed  in  her  chemise,  clasping  her  bended 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  87 

knees  with  her  bare  arms,  and  looked  at 
Ribnikov  with  timid  curiosity.  In  the  bluish 
half-light  his  face  grew  sharper  still  and  yellower, 
like  the  face  of  a  dead  man.  His  mouth  stood 
open,  but  she  could  not  hear  his  breathing.  All 
over  his  face,  especially  about  the  eyes  and 
mouth,  was  an  expression  of  such  utter  weariness 
and  profound  human  suffering  as  she  had  never 
seen  in  her  life  before.  She  gently  passed  her 
hand  back  over  his  stiff  hair  and  forehead.  The 
skin  was  cold  and  covered  all  over  with  clammy 
sweat.  Ribnikov  trembled  at  the  touch,  cried 
out  in  terror,  and  with  a  quick  movement  raised 
himself  from  the  pillow. 

'  Ah  !  Who  's  that,  who  ?  '  he  cried  abruptly, 
Aviping  his  face  with  his  shirt-sleeve. 

'  What 's  the  matter,  darling  ?  '  the  woman 
asked  with  sympathy.  '  You  're  not  well  ?  Shall 
I  get  you  some  water  ?  ' 

But  Ribnikov  had  mastered  himself,  and  lay 
down  once  more. 

'  Thanks.  It 's  all  right  now.  I  was  dreaming. 
.  .  .  Go  to  sleep,  dear,  do.' 

'  When  do  you  want  me  to  wake  you, 
darling  ?  '  she  asked. 

'  Wake.  ...  In  the  morning.  .  .  .  The  sun 
will  rise  early.  .  .  .  And  the  horsemen  will 
come.  .  .  .  We  will  go  in  a  boat.  .  .  .  And  sail 
over  the  river.  .  .  .'  He  was  silent  and  lay 
quiet  for  some  minutes.  Suddenly  his  still, 
dead  face  was  distorted  with  terrible  pain. 
He  turned  on  his  back  with  a  moan,  and 
there  came   in   a   stream   from   his   lips   mys- 


88  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

terious,  wild-sounding  words  of  a  strange 
language. 

The  woman  held  her  breath  and  listened, 
possessed  by  the  superstitious  terror  which 
always  comes  from  a  sleeper's  delirium.  His 
face  was  only  a  couple  of  inches  from  hers,  and 
she  could  not  tear  her  eyes  away.  He  was 
silent  for  a  while  and  then  began  to  speak  again, 
many  words  and  unintelligible.  Then  he  was 
silent  again,  as  though  listening  attentively  to 
some  one's  speech.  Suddenly  the  woman  heard 
the  only  Japanese  word  she  knew,  from  the  news- 
papers, pronounced  aloud  with  a  firm,  clear 
voice  : 

'  Banzai ! ' 

Her  heart  beat  so  violently  that  the  velvet 
coverlet  lifted  again  and  again  with  the  throb- 
bing. She  remembered  how  they  had  called 
Ribnikov  by  the  names  of  Japanese  generals  in 
the  red  cabinet  that  day,  and  a  far  faint  suspicion 
began  to  stir  in  the  obscurity  of  her  mind. 

Some  one  lightly  tapped  on  the  door.  She 
got  up  and  opened. 

'  Clotilde  dear,  is  that  you  ? '  a  woman's  gentle 
whisper  was  heard.  '  Aren't  you  asleep  ? 
Come  in  to  me  for  a  moment.  Leonka  's  with 
me,  and  he 's  standing  some  apricot  wine. 
Come  on,  dear  I ' 

It  was  Sony  a,  the  Karaim,^  Clotilde' s  neigh-- 

*  The  Karaim  are  Jews  of  the  pure  original  stock  who 
entered  Russia  long  before  the  main  immigration  and  settled 
in  the  Crimea.  They  are  free  from  the  ordinary  Jewish 
restrictions. 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  89 

bour,  bound  to  her  by  the  cloying,  hysterical 
affection  which  always  pairs  off  the  women  in 
these  establishments. 

'  All  right.  I  '11  come  now.  Oh,  I  've  some- 
thing very  interesting  to  tell  you.  Wait  a 
second.     I  '11  dress.' 

'  Nonsense.  Don't.  Who  are  you  nervous 
about  ?     Leonka  ?     Come,  just  as  you  are  ! ' 

She  began  to  put  on  her  petticoat. 

Ribnikov  roused  out  of  sleep. 

'  Where  are  you  going  to  ?  '  he  asked  drowsily. 

'  Only  a  minute  .  .  .  Back  immediately  .  .  . 
I  must  .  .  .'  she  answered,  hurriedly  tying  the 
tape  round  her  waist.  '  You  go  to  sleep.  I  '11 
be  back  in  a  second.' 

He  had  not  heard  her  last  words.  A  dark 
heavy  sleep  had  instantly  engulfed  him. 


90  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 


VI 

Leonka  was  the  idol  of  the  whole  establish- 
ment, beginning  with  Madame,  and  descending 
to  the  tiniest  servant.  In  these  places  where 
boredom,  indolence,  and  cheap  literature  pro- 
duce feverishly  romantic  tastes,  the  extreme  of 
adoration  is  lavished  on  thieves  and  detectives, 
because  of  their  heroic  lives,  which  are  full 
of  fascinating  risks,  dangers  and  adventures. 
Leonka  used  to  appear  in  the  most  varied 
costumes,  at  times  almost  made  up.  Some- 
times he  kept  a  meaning  and  mysterious  silence. 
Above  all  every  one  remembered  very  well 
that  he  often  proclaimed  that  the  local  police 
had  an  unbounded  respect  for  him  and  fulfilled 
his  orders  blindly.  In  one  case  he  had  said 
three  or  four  words  in  a  mysterious  jargon,  and 
that  was  enough  to  send  a  few  thieves  who  were 
behaving  rowdily  in  the  house  crawling  into  the 
street.  Besides  there  were  times  when  he  had  a 
great  deal  of  money.  It  is  easy  to  understand 
that  Henrietta,  whom  he  called  Genka  and  with 
whom  he  had  an  assiduous  affair,  was  treated 
with  a  jealous  respect. 

He  was  a  young  man  with  a  swarthy,  freckled 
face,  with  black  moustaches  that  pointed  up  to 
his  very  eyes.  His  chin  was  short,  firm  and 
broad  ;    his  eyes  were  dark,  handsome  and  im- 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  91 

pudent.  He  was  sitting  on  the  sofa  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, his  waistcoat  unbuttoned  and  his  necktie 
loose.  He  was  small  but  well  proportioned. 
His  broad  chest  and  his  muscles,  so  big  that  his 
shirt  seemed  ready  to  tear  at  the  shoulder,  were 
eloquent  of  his  strength.  Genka  sat  close  to 
him  with  her  feet  on  the  sofa  ;  Clotilde  was 
opposite.  Sipping  his  liqueur  slowly  with  his 
red  lips,  in  an  artificially  elegant  voice  he  told 
liis  tale  unconcernedly  : 

'  They  brought  him  to  the  station.  His  pass- 
port— Korney  Sapietov,  resident  in  Kolpin  or 
something  of  the  kind.  Of  course  the  devil  was 
drunk,  absolutely.  "  Put  him  into  a  cold  cell 
and  sober  him  down."  General  rule.  That  very 
moment  I  happened  to  drop  into  the  inspector's 
office.  I  had  a  look.  By  Jove,  an  old  friend  : 
Sanka  the  Butcher — triple  murder  and  sacrilege. 
Instantly  I  gave  the  constable  on  duty  a  wink, 
and  went  out  into  the  corridor  as  though  no- 
thing had  happened.  The  constable  came  out 
to  me.  "What's  the  matter,  Leonti  Spiri- 
donovich  ?  "  "  Just  send  that  gentleman  round 
to  the  Detective  Bureau  for  a  minute."  They 
brought  him.  Not  a  muscle  in  his  face  moved. 
I  just  looked  him  in  the  eyes  and  said  '  : — 
Leonka  rapped  his  knuckles  meaningly  on  the 
table — '  "  Is  it  a  long  time,  Sanka,  since  you  left 
Odessa  and  decided  to  honour  us  here  ?  "  Of 
course  he  's  quite  indifferent — playing  the  fool. 
Not  a  word.  Oh,  he  's  a  bright  one,  too.  *'  I 
haven't  any  idea  who  Sanka  the  Butcher  is.  I 
am  ...  so  and  so."     So  I  come  up  to  him, 


92  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

catch  hold  of  him  by  the  beard — hey,  presto — 
the  beard's  left  in  my  hand.  False!  .  .  . 
' '  Will  you  own  up  now,  you  son  of  a  bitch  ?  "  "I 
haven't  any  idea."  Then  I  let  fly  straight  at 
his  nose — once,  twice— a  bloody  mess.  *'  Will 
you  own  up  ?  "  "I  haven't  any  idea."  "  Ah, 
that 's  your  game,  is  it  ?  I  gave  you  a  decent 
chance  before.  Now,  you  've  got  yourself  to 
thank.  Bring  Arsenti  the  Flea  here."  We  had 
a  prisoner  of  that  name.  He  hated  Sanka  to 
death.  Of  course,  my  dear,  I  knew  how  they 
stood.  They  brought  the  Flea.  "  Well,  Flea, 
who 's  this  gentleman  ?  "  The  Flea  laughs. 
"  Why  Sanka  the  Butcher,  of  course  ?  How  do 
you  do,  Sanichka  ?  Have  you  been  honouring 
us  a  long  while  ?  How  did  you  get  on  in 
Odessa  ?  "  Then  the  Butcher  gave  in.  "  All 
right,  Leonti  Spiridonovich.  I  give  in.  Nothing 
can  get  away  from  you.  Give  us  a  cigarette." 
Of  course  I  gave  him  one.  I  never  refuse  them, 
out  of  charity.  The  servant  of  God  was  taken 
away.  He  just  looked  at  the  Flea,  no  more. 
I  thought,  well,  the  Flea  will  have  to  pay  for 
that.     The  Butcher  will  do  him  in  for  sure.' 

'  Do  him  in  ?  '  Genka  asked  with  servile 
confidence,  in  a  terrified  Avhisper. 

'  Absolutely.  Do  him  in.  That 's  the  kind 
of  man  he  is  ! ' 

He  sipped  his  glass  complacently.  Genka 
looked  at  him  with  fixed,  frightened  eyes,  so  in- 
tently that  her  mouth  even  opened  and  watered. 
She  smacked  her  hands  on  her  lips. 

'  My      God,      how      awful !       Just      think, 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  03 

Clotilduchka !  And  you  weren't  afraid, 
Leonya  ?  ' 

'  Well,  am  I  to  be  frightened  of  every 
vagabond  ?  ' 

The  rapt  attention  of  the  woman  excited  him, 
and  he  began  to  invent  a  story  that  students 
had  been  making  bombs  somewhere  on  Vassiliev 
Island,  and  that  the  Government  had  instructed 
him  to  arrest  the  conspirators.  Bombs  there 
were — it  was  proved  afterwards — twelve  thou- 
sand of  them.  If  they  'd  all  exploded  then  not 
only  the  house  they  луеге  in,  but  half  Petersburg, 
perhaps,  луоиЫ  have  been  blown  to  atoms.  .  .  . 
Next  came  a  thrilling  story  of  Leonka's  ex- 
traordinary heroism,  when  he  disguised  himself 
as  a  student,  entered  the  '  devil's  workshop,' 
gave  a  sign  to  some  one  outside  the  window, 
and  disarmed  the  villains  in  a  second.  He 
caught  one  of  them  by  the  sleeve  at  the  very 
moment  when  he  was  going  to  explode  a  lot  of 
bombs. 

Genka  groaned,  was  terror-stricken,  slapped 
her  legs,  and  continually  turned  to  Clotilde 
with  exclamations  : 

'  Ah  !  what  do  you  think  of  all  that  ?  Just 
think  what  scoundrels  these  students  are, 
Clotilduchka  !   I  never  liked  them.' 

At  last,  stirred  to  her  very  depths  by  her 
lover,  she  hung  on  his  neck  and  began  to  kiss 
him  loudly. 

'  Leonichka,  my  darling  !  It 's  terrible  to 
listen  to,  even  !  And  you  aren't  frightened  of 
anything ! ' 


94  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

He  complacently  twisted  his  left  moustache 
upwards,  and  let  drop  carelessly :  '  Why  be 
afraid  ?  You  can  only  die  once.  That 's  what 
I  'm  paid  for.' 

Clotilde  was  tormented  all  the  while  by 
jealous  envy  of  her  friend's  magnificent  lover. 
She  vaguely  suspected  that  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  lying  in  Leonka's  stories  ;  while  she  now 
had  something  utterly  extraordinary  in  her 
hands,  such  as  no  one  had  ever  had  before, 
something  that  would  immediately  take  all  the 
shine  out  of  Leonka's  exploits.  For  some 
minutes  she  hesitated.  A  faint  echo  of  the 
tender  pity  for  Ribnikov  still  restrained  her. 
But  a  hysterical  yearning  to  shine  took  hold  of 
her,  and  she  said  in  a  dull,  quiet  voice :  '  Do 
you  know  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  Leonya  ? 
I  've  got  such  a  queer  visitor  to-day.' 

*  H'm.  You  think  he's  a  sharper  ? '  he  asked 
condescendingly.     Genka  was  offended. 

'  A  sharper,  you  say  !  That 's  your  story. 
Some  drunken  officer.' 

'  No,  you  mustn't  say  that,'  Leonka  pom- 
pously interrupted.  '  It  happens  that  sharpers 
get  themselves  up  as  officers.  What  was  it 
you  were  going  to  say,  Clotilde  ?  ' 

Then  she  told  the  story  of  Ribnikov  with 
every  detail,  displaying  a  petty  and  utterly 
feminine  talent  for  observation :  she  told 
how  they  called  him  General  Kuroki,  his 
Japanese  face,  his  strange  tenderness  and 
passion,  his  delirium,  and  finally  now  he  said 
'  Banzai  ! ' 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  05 

'  You  're  not  lying  ?  '  Leonka  said  quickly. 
Keen  points  of  fire  lit  in  his  eyes. 

'  I  swear  it 's  true  !  May  I  be  rooted  to  the 
ground  if  it 's  a  lie  !  You  look  through  the 
keyhole,  I  '11  go  in  and  open  the  shutter.  He  's 
as  like  a  Japanese  as  two  peas.' 

Leonka  rose.  Without  haste,  with  a  serious 
look,  he  put  on  his  overcoat,  carefully  feeling 
his  left  inside  pocket. 

'  Come  on,'  he  said  resolutely.  '  Who  did 
he  arrive  with  ?  ' 

Only  Karyukov  and  Strahlmann  remained 
of  the  all-night  party.  Karyukov  could  not 
be  awakened,  and  Strahlmaun  muttered  some- 
thing indistinctly.  He  was  still  half  drunk  and 
his  eyes  were  heavy  and  red. 

'  What  officer  ?  Blast  him  to  hell !  He  came 
up  to  us  when  we  were  in  the  "  Buff,"  but  where 
he  came  from  nobody  knows.' 

He  began  to  dress  immediately,  snorting 
angrily.  Leonka  apologised  and  went  out. 
He  had  already  managed  to  get  a  glimpse  of 
Ribnikov's  face  through  the  keyhole,  and 
through  he  had  some  doubts  remaining,  he  was 
a  good  patriot,  distinguished  for  impertinence 
and  not  devoid  of  imagination.  He  decided  to 
act  on  his  own  responsibility.  In  a  moment 
he  was  on  the  balcony  whistling  for  help. 


96  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 


VII 

RiBNiKOV  woke  suddenly  as  though  an  im- 
perative voice  within  him  had  said  '  Wake  up.' 
An  hour  and  a  half  of  sleep  had  completely  re- 
freshed him.  First  of  all  he  stared  suspiciously 
at  the  door :  it  seemed  to  him  that  some  one 
was  watching  him  from  there  with  a  fixed  stare. 
Then  he  looked  round.  The  shutter  was  half 
open  so  that  every  little  thing  in  the  room  could 
be  seen.  The  woman  лvas  sitting  by  the  table 
opposite  the  bed,  silent  and  pale,  regarding  him 
with  big,  bright  eyes. 

'  What 's  happened  ?  '  Ribnikov  asked  in 
alarm.     '  Tell  me,  what 's  been  happening  here  ?  ' 

She  did  not  answer,  but  her  chin  began  to 
tremble  and  her  teeth  chattered. 

A  suspicious,  cruel  light  came  into  the  officer's 
eyes.  He  bent  his  whole  body  from  the  bed 
with  his  ear  to  the  door.  The  noise  of  many 
feet,  of  men  evidently  unused  to  moving  cau- 
tiously, approached  along  the  corridor,  and 
suddenly  was  quiet  before  the  door. 

Ribnikov  with  a  quick,  soft  movement  leapt 
from  the  bed  and  twice  turned  the  key.  There 
was  an  instant  knock  at  the  door.  With  a  cry 
the  woman  turned  her  face  to  the  table  and 
buried  her  head  in  her  hands. 


CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV  97 

In  a  few  seconds  the  captain  was  dressed. 
Again  they  knocked  at  the  door.  He  had  only 
his  cap  ^vith  him ;  he  had  left  his  sword  and 
overcoat  below.  He  was  pale  but  perfectly 
calm.  Even  his  hands  did  not  tremble  while  he 
dressed  himself,  and  all  his  movements  луеге 
quite  unhurried  and  adroit.  Doing  up  the  last 
button  of  his  tunic,  he  went  over  to  the  woman, 
and  suddenly  squeezed  her  arm  above  the 
wrist  with  such  terrible  strength  that  her 
face  purpled  with  the  blood  that  rushed  to  her 
head. 

'  You  !  '  he  said  quietly,  in  an  angry  whisper, 
without  moving  his  jaws.  '  If  you  move  or 
make  a  sound,  I  '11  kill  you.  .  .  .' 

Again  they  knocked  at  the  door,  and  a  dull 
v^oice  came  :   '  Open  the  door,  if  you  please,' 

The  captain  now  no  longer  limped.  Quickly 
and  silently  he  ran  to  the  window,  jumped  on 
to  the  window-ledge  with  the  soft  spring  of  a 
cat,  opened  the  shutters  and  with  one  sweep 
flung  wide  the  Avindow  frames.  Below  him  the 
paved  yard  showed  white  with  scanty  grass 
between  the  stones,  and  the  branches  of  a  few 
thin  trees  pointed  upwards.  He  did  not  hesitate 
for  a  second  ;  but  at  the  very  moment  that  he 
sat  sideways  on  the  iron  frame  of  the  window- 
sill,  resting  on  it  with  his  left  hand,  Avith  one 
foot  already  hanging  down,  and  prepared  to 
leap  with  his  луЬо1е  body,  the  woman  threw 
herself  upon  him  with  a  piercing  cry  and  caught 
him  by  the  left  arm.  Tearing  himself  away,  he 
made  a  false  movement  and  suddenly,  with  a 


98  CAPTAIN  RIBNIKOV 

faint  cry  as  though  of  surprise,  fell  in  an  awkward 
heap  straight  down  on  the  stones. 

Almost  at  the  very  second  the  old  door  fell 
flat  into  the  room.  First  Leonka  ran  in,  out 
of  breath,  showing  his  teeth ;  his  eyes  were 
aflame.  After  him  came  huge  policemen,  stamp- 
ing and  holding  their  swords  in  their  left  hands. 
When  he  saw  the  open  window  and  the  woman 
holding  on  the  frame  and  screaming  without 
pause,  Leonka  quickly  understood  what  had 
happened.  He  лvas  really  a  brave  man,  and 
without  a  thought  or  a  word,  as  though  he  had 
already  planned  it,  he  took  a  running  leap 
through  the  window. 

He  landed  two  steps  away  from  Ribnikov, 
who  lay  motionless  on  his  side.  In  spite  of  the 
drumming  in  his  head,  and  the  intense  pain  in 
his  belly  and  his  heels  from  the  fall,  he  kept  his 
head,  and  instantly  threw  himself  heavily  with 
the  full  weight  of  his  body  on  the  captain, 

'  A-ah.  I  've  got  you  now,'  he  uttered 
hoarsely,  crushing  his  victim  in  mad  exaspera- 
tion. 

The  captain  did  not  resist.  His  eyes  burned 
with  an  implacable  hatred.  But  he  was  pale 
as  death,  and  a  pink  froth  stood  in  bubbles  on 
his  lips. 

'  Don't  crush  me,'  he  whispered.  '  My  leg  's 
broken.' 


Ill 

THE    OUTRAGE 


THE   OUTRAGE 

A   TRUE   STORY 

It  was  five  o'clock  on  a  July  afternoon.  The 
heat  was  terrible.  The  whole  of  the  huge  stone- 
built  town  breathed  out  heat  like  a  glowing 
furnace.  The  glare  of  the  white-walled  house 
was  insufferable.  The  asphalt  pavements  grew 
soft  and  burned  the  feet.  The  shadows  of  the 
acacias  spread  over  the  cobbled  road,  pitiful  and 
weary.  They  too  seemed  hot.  The  sea,  pale 
in  the  sunlight,  lay  heavy  and  immobile  as  one 
dead.     Over  the  streets  hung  a  лvhite  dust. 

In  the  foyer  of  one  of  the  private  theatres 
a  small  committee  of  local  barristers  who  had 
undertaken  to  conduct  the  cases  of  those  who 
had  suffered  in  the  last  pogrom  against  the  Jews 
was  reaching  the  end  of  its  daily  task.  There 
were  nineteen  of  them,  all  juniors,  young,  pro- 
gressive and  conscientious  men.  The  sitting 
was  without  formality,  and  white  ducks,  flannels 
and  white  alpaca  were  in  the  majority.  They 
sat  anywhere,  at  little  marble  tables,  and  the 
chairman  stood  in  front  of  an  empty  counter 
where  chocolates  were  sold  in  the  лvinter. 

The  barristers  were  quite  exhausted  by  the 
heat  which  poured  in  through  the  windows,  with 
the  dazzling  sunlight  and  the  noise  of  the  streets. 

101 


102  THE  OUTRAGE 

The  proceedings  went  lazily  and  with  a  certain 
irritation. 

A  tall  young  man  with  a  fair  moustache  and 
thin  hair  was  in  the  chair.  He  was  dreaming 
voluptuously  how  he  would  be  off  in  an  instant 
on  his  new-bought  bicycle  to  the  bungalow.  He 
would  undress  quickly,  and  without  waiting  to 
cool,  still  bathed  in  sweat,  would  fling  himself 
into  the  clear,  cold,  sweet-smelling  sea.  His 
whole  body  was  enervated  and  tense,  thrilled 
by  the  thought.  Impatiently  moving  the  papers 
before  him,  he  spoke  in  a  drowsy  voice. 

'  So,  Joseph  Moritzovich  will  conduct  the 
case  of  Rubinchik.  .  .  .  Perhaps  there  is  still 
a  statement  to  be  made  on  the  order  of  the 
day?' 

His  youngest  colleague,  a  short,  stout  Karaim, 
very  black  and  lively,  said  in  a  whisper  so  that 
every  one  could  hear  :  '  On  the  order  of  the  day, 
the  best  thing  would  be  iced  kvass.  .  .  .' 

The  chairman  gave  him  a  stern  side-glance, 
but  could  not  restrain  a  smile.  He  sighed  and 
put  both  his  hands  on  the  table  to  raise  himself 
and  declare  the  meeting  closed,  when  the  door- 
keeper, who  stood  at  the  entrance  to  the  theatre, 
suddenly  moved  forward  and  said :  '  There 
are  seven  people  outside,  sir.  They  want  to 
come  in.' 

The  chairman  looked  impatiently  round  the 
company. 

'  What  is  to  be  done,  gentlemen  ?  ' 

Voices  were  heard. 

'  Next  time.     Basta  !  ' 


THE  OUTRAGE  108 

'  Let  'em  put  it  in  writing.' 

'  If  they  '11  get  it  over  quickly.  .  .  .  Decide  it 
at  once.' 

'  Let  'em  go  to  the  devil.  Phew  !  It 's  like 
boiling  pitch.' 

'  Let  them  in.'  The  chairman  gave  a  sign 
with  his  head,  annoyed.  '  Then  bring  me  a 
Vichy,  please.     But  it  must  be  cold.' 

The  porter  opened  the  door  and  called  down 
the  corridor  :  '  Come  in.     They  say  you  may.' 

Then  seven  of  the  most  surprising  and  un- 
expected individuals  filed  into  the  foyer.  First 
appeared  a  full-groлvn,  confident  man  in  a  smart 
suit,  of  the  colour  of  dry  sea-sand,  in  a  magnifi- 
cent pink  shirt  with  white  stripes  and  a  crimson 
rose  in  his  buttonhole.  From  the  front  his  head 
looked  like  an  upright  bean,  from  the  side  like 
a  horizontal  bean.  His  face  was  adorned  with 
a  strong,  bushy,  martial  moustache.  He  wore 
dark  blue  pince-nez  on  his  nose,  on  his  hands 
straw-coloured  gloves.  In  his  left  hand  he  held 
a  black  walking-stick  with  a  silver  mount,  in 
his  right  a  light  blue  handkerchief. 

The  other  six  produced  a  strange,  chaotic, 
incongruous  impression,  exactly  as  though  they 
had  all  hastily  pooled  not  merely  their  clothes, 
but  their  hands,  feet  and  heads  as  well.  There 
was  a  man  with  the  splendid  profile  of  a  Roman 
senator,  dressed  in  rags  and  tatters.  Another 
wore  an  elegant  dress  waistcoat,  from  the  deep 
opening  of  which  a  dirty  little-Russian  shirt 
leapt  to  the  eye.  Here  were  the  unbalanced 
faces  of  the  criminal  type,  but  looking  with  a 


104  THE  OUTRAGE 

confidence  that  nothing  could  shake.  All  these 
men,  in  spite  of  their  apparent  youth,  evidently 
possessed  a  large  experience  of  life,  an  easy 
manner,  a  bold  approach,  and  some  hidden, 
suspicious  cunning. 

The  gentleman  in  the  sandy  suit  bowed  just 
his  head,  neatly  and  easily,  and  said  with  a  half- 
question  in  his  voice  :   '  Mr.  Chairman  ?  ' 

'  Yes.  I  am  the  chairman,'  said  the  latter. 
'  What  is  your  business  ?  ' 

'  We — all  whom  you  see  before  you,'  the 
gentleman  began  in  a  quiet  voice  and  turned 
round  to  indicate  his  companions,  '  we  come  as 
delegates  from  the  United  Rostov-Kharkov-and- 
Odessa-Nicolaiev  Association  of  Thieves.' 

The  barristers  began  to  shift  in  their  seats. 

The  chairman  flung  himself  back  and  opened 
his  eyes  wide.  '  Association  of  what  ?  '  he  said, 
perplexed. 

'  The  Association  of  Thieves,'  the  gentleman 
in  the  sandy  suit  coolly  repeated.  '  As  for  my- 
self, my  comrades  did  me  the  signal  honour  of 
electing  me  as  the  spokesman  of  the  deputation.' 

'  Very  .  .  .  pleased,'  the  chairman  said  un- 
certainly. 

'  Thank  you.  All  seven  of  us  are  ordinary 
thieves — naturally  of  different  departments. 
The  Association  has  authorised  us  to  put  before 
your  esteemed  Committee ' — ^the  gentleman 
again  made  an  elegant  bow — '  our  respectful 
demand  for  assistance.' 

'  I  don't  quite  understand  .  .  .  quite  frankly 
.  .  .  what  is  the  connection.  .  .  .'     The  chair- 


THE  OUTRAGE  105 

man  waved  his  hands  helplessly.     '  However, 
please  go  on.' 

'  The  matter  about  which  we  have  the  courage 
and  the  honour  to  apply  to  you,  gentlemen,  is 
very  clear,  very  simple,  and  very  brief.  It  will 
take  only  six  or  seven  minutes.  I  consider  it 
my  duty  to  warn  you  of  this  beforehand,  in 
view  of  the  late  hour  and  the  115  degrees 
that  Fahrenheit  marks  in  the  shade.'  The 
orator  expectorated  slightly  and  glanced  at  his 
superb  gold  watch.  '  You  see,  in  the  reports 
that  have  lately  appeared  in  the  local  papers 
of  the  melancholy  and  terrible  days  of  the  last 
pogrom,  there  have  very  often  been  indications 
that  among  the  instigators  of  the  pogrom  who 
were  paid  and  organised  by  the  police — the 
dregs  of  society,  consisting  of  drunkards,  tramps, 
souteneurs,  and  hooligans  from  the  slums — 
thieves  were  also  to  be  found.  At  first  we  were 
silent,  but  finally  we  considered  ourselves  under 
the  necessity  of  protesting  against  such  an 
unjust  and  serious  accusation,  before  the  face 
of  the  whole  of  intellectual  society.  I  know 
well  that  in  the  eye  of  the  law  we  are  offenders 
and  enemies  of  society.  But  imagine  only  for 
a  moment,  gentlemen,  the  situation  of  this 
enemy  of  society  when  he  is  accused  wholesale 
of  an  offence  which  he  not  only  never  com- 
mitted, but  which  he  is  ready  to  resist  with  the 
whole  strength  of  his  soul.  It  goes  ^vithout 
saying  that  he  лу111  feel  the  outrage  of  such  an 
mjustice  more  keenly  than  a  normal,  average, 
fortunate  citizen.     Now,   we  declare  that  the 


106  THE  OUTRAGE 

accusation  brought  against  us  is  utterly  devoid 
of  all  basis,  not  merely  of  fact  but  even  of  logic. 
I  intend  to  prove  this  in  a  few  words  if  the 
honourable  committee  лу111  kindly  listen.' 

'  Proceed,'  said  the  chairman. 

'  Please  do  .  .  .  Please  .  .  .'  was  heard  from 
the  barristers,  now  animated. 

*  I  offer  you  my  sincere  thanks  in  the  name 
of  all  my  comrades.  Believe  me,  you  will  never 
repent  your  attention  to  the  representatives  of 
our  .  .  .  well,  let  us  say,  slippery,  but  never- 
theless difficult,  profession.  "  So  we  begin," 
as  Giraldoni  sings  in  the  prologue  to  Pagliacci. 

*  But  first  I  would  ask  your  permission,  Mr. 
Chairman,  to  quench  my  thirst  a  little.  .  .  . 
Porter,  bring  me  a  lemonade  and  a  glass  of 
English  bitter,  there  's  a  good  fellow.  Gentle- 
men, I  will  not  speak  of  the  moral  aspect  of  our 
profession  nor  of  its  social  importance.  Doubt- 
less you  know  better  than  I  the  striking 
and  brilliant  paradox  of  Proudhon :  La 
propriete  c'est  le  vol — a  paradox  if  you  like,  but 
one  that  has  never  yet  been  refuted  by  the 
sermons  of  cowardly  bourgeois  or  fat  priests. 
For  instance  :  a  father  accumulates  a  million 
by  energetic  and  clever  exploitation,  and  leaves 
to  his  son — a  rickety,  lazy,  ignorant,  degenerate 
idiot,  a  brainless  maggot,  a  true  parasite. 
Potentially  a  miUion  roubles  is  a  million  work- 
ing days,  the  absolutely  irrational  right  to 
labour,  sweat,  life,  and  blood  of  a  terrible 
number  of  men.  Why  ?  What  is  the  ground 
or  reason  ?     Utterly  unknown.     Then  why  not 


THE  OUTRAGE  107 

agree  with  the  proposition,  gentlemen,  tiiat  our 
profession  is  to  some  extent  as  it  were  a  correc- 
tion of  the  excessive  accumulation  of  values  in 
the  hands  of  individuals,  and  serves  as  a  protest 
against  all  the  hardships,  abominations,  arbi- 
trariness, violence,  and  negligence  of  the  human 
personality,  against  all  the  monstrosities  created 
by  the  bourgeois  capitalistic  organisation  of 
modern  society  ?  Sooner  or  later,  this  order 
of  things  will  assuredly  be  overturned  by  the 
social  revolution.  Property  will  pass  away 
into  the  limbo  of  melancholy  memories  and 
with  it,  alas  !  we  will  disappear  from  the  face 
of  the  earth,  we,  les  braves  chevaliers  d'industrie.' 

The  orator  paused  to  take  the  tray  from  the 
hands  of  the  porter,  and  placed  it  near  to  his 
hand  on  the  table. 

'  Excuse  me,  gentlemen.  .  .  .  Here,  my  good 
man,  take  this  .  .  .  and  by  the  way,  when  you 
go  out  shut  the  door  close  behind  you.' 

'  Very  good,  your  Excellency  ! '  the  porter 
bawled  in  jest. 

The  orator  drank  off  half  a  glass  and  continued : 
'  However,  let  us  leave  aside  the  philosophical, 
social,  and  economic  aspects  of  the  question.  I 
do  not  wish  to  fatigue  your  attention.  I  must 
nevertheless  point  out  that  our  profession  very 
closely  approaches  the  idea  of  that  which  is 
called  art.  Into  it  enter  all  the  elements  which 
go  to  form  art — vocation,  inspiration,  fantasy, 
inventiveness,  ambition,  and  a  long  and  arduous 
apprenticeship  to  the  science.  From  it  is 
absent  virtue  alone,  concerning  which  the  great 


108  THE  OUTRAGE 

Karamzin  wrote  with  such  stupendous  and  fiery 
fascination.  Gentlemen,  nothing  is  further  from 
my  intention  than  to  trifle  with  you  and  waste 
your  precious  time  with  idle  paradoxes  ;  but 
I  cannot  avoid  expounding  my  idea  briefly.  To 
an  outsider's  ear  it  sounds  absurdly  wild  and 
ridiculous  to  speak  of  the  vocation  of  a  thief. 
However,  I  venture  to  assure  you  that  this 
vocation  is  a  reality.  There  are  men  who  possess 
a  peculiarly  strong  visual  memory,  sharpness 
and  accuracjT^  of  eye,  presence  of  mind,  dexterity 
of  hand,  and  above  all  a  subtle  sense  of  touch, 
Avho  are  as  it  were  born  into  God's  world  for  the 
sole  and  special  purpose  of  becoming  distin- 
guished card-sharpers.  The  pickpockets'  pro- 
fession demands  extraordinary  nimbleness  and 
agility,  a  terrific  certainty  of  movement,  not  to 
mention  a  ready  wit,  a  talent  for  observation 
and  strained  attention.  Some  have  a  positive 
vocation  for  breaking  open  safes  :  from  their 
tenderest  childhood  they  are  attracted  by  the 
mysteries  of  every  kind  of  complicated  mechan- 
ism—  bicycles,  sewing  machines,  clock-work 
toys  and  watches.  Finally,  gentlemen,  there 
are  people  with  an  hereditary  animus  against 
private  property.  You  may  call  this  pheno- 
menon degeneracy.  But  I  tell  you  that  you 
cannot  entice  a  true  thief,  and  thief  by  vocation, 
into  the  prose  of  honest  vegetation  by  any 
gingerbread  rcAvard,  or  by  the  offer  of  a  secure 
position,  or  by  the  gift  of  money,  or  by  a  woman's 
love  :  because  there  is  here  a  permanent  beauty 
of   risk,    a    fascinating    abyss    of   danger,    the 


THE  OUTRAGE  109 

delightful  sinking  of  the  heart,  the  impetuous 
pulsation  of  life,  the  ecstasy  !  You  are  armed 
with  the  protection  of  the  law,  by  locks,  re- 
volvers, telephones,  police  and  soldiery  ;  but 
we  only  by  our  own  dexterity,  cunning  and 
fearlessness.  We  are  the  foxes,  and  society — 
is  a  chicken -run  guarded  by  dogs.  Are  you 
aware  that  the  most  artistic  and  gifted  natures  in 
our  villages  become  horse-thieves  and  poachers  ? 
What  would  you  have  ?  Life  has  been  so 
meagre,  so  insipid,  so  intolerably  dull  to  eager 
and  high-spirited  souls  ! 

'  I  pass  on  to  inspiration.  Gentlemen,  doubt- 
less you  have  had  to  read  of  thefts  that  were 
supernatural  in  design  and  execution.  In  the 
headlines  of  the  newspapers  they  are  called 
'*  An  Amazing  Robbery,"  or  "  An  Ingenious 
Swindle,"  or  again  "  A  Clever  Ruse  of  the  Mobs- 
men." In  such  cases  our  bourgeois  pater- 
familias waves  his  hands  and  exclaims  :  "  What 
a  terrible  thing  !  If  only  their  abilities  were 
turned  to  good — their  inventiveness,  their 
amazing  knowledge  of  human  psychology,  their 
self-possession,  their  fearlessness,  their  incom- 
parable histrionic  powers  !  What  extraordinary 
benefits  they  would  bring  to  the  country ! " 
But  it  is  well  known  that  the  bourgeois  pater- 
familias Avas  specially  devised  by  Heaven  to 
utter  commonplaces  and  trivialities.  I  myself 
sometimes — луе  thieves  are  sentimental  people, 
I  confess — I  myself  sometimes  admire  a  beauti- 
ful sunset  in  Alexandra  Park  or  by  the  sea-shore. 
And  I  am  always  certain  beforehand  that  some 


110  THE  OUTRAGE 

one  near  me  will  say  with  infallible  aplomb  : 
**  Look  at  it.  If  it  were  put  into  a  picture  no 
one  would  ever  believe  it !  "  I  turn  round  and 
naturally  I  see  a  self-satisfied,  full-fed  pater- 
familias, who  delights  in  repeating  some  one 
else's  silly  statement  as  though  it  were  his  own. 
As  for  our  dear  country,  the  bourgeois  pater- 
familias looks  upon  it  as  though  it  w^ere  a  roast 
turkey.  If  you  've  managed  to  cut  the  best  part 
of  the  bird  for  yourself,  eat  it  quietly  in  a  com- 
fortable corner  and  praise  God.  But  he  's  not 
really  the  important  person.  I  was  led  away 
by  my  detestation  of  vulgarity  and  I  apologise 
for  the  digression.  The  real  point  is  that  genius 
and  inspiration,  even  when  they  are  not  devoted 
to  the  service  of  the  Orthodox  Church,  remain 
rare  and  beautiful  things.  Progress  is  a  law — 
and  theft  too  has  its  creation. 

*  Finally,  our  profession  is  by  no  means  as  easy 
and  pleasant  as  it  seems  to  the  first  glance.  It 
demands  long  experience,  constant  practice, 
slow  and  painful  apprenticeship.  It  comprises 
in  itself  hundreds  of  supple,  skilful  processes 
that  the  cleverest  juggler  cannot  compass. 
That  I  may  not  give  you  only  empty  words, 
gentlemen,  I  will  perform  a  few  experiments 
before  you,  now.  I  ask  you  to  have  every  con- 
fidence in  the  demonstrators.  We  are  all  at 
present  in  the  enjoyment  of  legal  freedom,  and 
though  we  are  usually  watched,  and  every  one 
of  us  is  known  by  face,  and  our  photographs 
adorn  the  albums  of  all  detective  departments, 
for  the  time  being  we  are  not  under  the  necessity 


THE  OUTRAGE  111 

of  hiding  ourselves  from  anybody.  If  any  one 
of  you  should  recognise  any  of  us  in  the  future 
under  different  circumstances,  we  ask  you 
earnestly  always  to  act  in  accordance  with  your 
professional  duties  and  your  obligations  as 
citizens.  In  grateful  return  for  your  kind 
attention  we  have  decided  to  declare  your  pro- 
perty inviolable,  and  to  invest  it  with  a  thieves' 
taboo.     However,  I  proceed  to  business.' 

The  orator  turned  round  and  gave  an  order  : 
'  Sesoi  the  Great,  will  you  come  this  way  !  ' 

An  enormous  fellow  with  a  stoop,  луЬозе  hands 
reached  to  his  knees,  without  a  forehead  or  a 
neck,  like  a  big,  foir  Hercules,  came  forward. 
He  grinned  stupidly  and  rubbed  his  left  eyebrow 
in  his  confusion. 

'  Can't  do  nothin'  here,'  he  said  hoarsely. 

The  gentleman  in  the  sandy  suit  spoke  for  him, 
turning  to  the  committee. 

'  Gentlemen,  before  you  stands  a  respected 
member  of  our  association.  His  speciality  is 
breaking  open  safes,  iron  strong  boxes,  and 
other  receptacles  for  monetary  tokens.  In  his 
night  work  he  sometimes  avails  himself  of  the 
electric  current  of  the  lighting  installation  for 
fusing  metals.  Unfortunately  he  has  nothing 
on  which  he  can  demonstrate  the  best  items  of 
his  repertoire.  He  will  open  the  most  elaborate 
lock  irreproachably.  .  .  .  By  the  way,  this  door 
here,  it 's  locked,  is  it  not  ?  ' 

Every  one  turned  to  look  at  the  door,  on  which 
a  printed  notice  hung  :  '  Stage  Door.  Strictly 
Private,' 


112  THE  OUTRAGE 

'  Yes,  the  door  's  locked,  evidently,'  the  chair- 
man agreed. 

'  Admirable.  Sesoi  the  Great,  will  you  be  so 
kind  ?  ' 

'  'Tain't  nothin'  at  all,'  said  the  giant  leisurely. 

He  went  close  to  the  door,  shook  it  cautiously 
with  his  hand,  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  small 
bright  instrument,  bent  down  to  the  keyhole, 
made  some  almost  imperceptible  movements 
with  the  tool,  suddenly  straightened  and  flung 
the  door  wide  in  silence.  The  chairman  had 
his  watch  in  his  hands.  The  whole  affair  took 
only  ten  seconds. 

'  Thank  you,  Sesoi  the  Great,'  said  the  gentle- 
man in  the  sandy  suit  politely.  '  You  may  go 
back  to  your  seat.' 

But  the  chairman  interrupted  in  some  alarm  : 
'  Excuse  me.  This  is  all  very  interesting  and 
instructive,  but  ...  is  it  included  in  your 
esteemed  colleague's  profession  to  be  able  to 
lock  the  door  again  ?  ' 

'  Ah,  mille  pardons.'  The  gentleman  bowed 
hurriedly.  '  It  slipped  my  mind.  Sesoi  the 
Great,  would  you  oblige  ?  ' 

The  door  was  locked  with  the  same  adroitness 
and  the  same  silence.  The  esteemed  colleague 
Avaddled  back  to  his  friends,  grinning. 

'  Now  I  will  have  the  honour  to  show  you  the 
skill  of  one  of  our  comrades  who  is  in  the  line  of 
picking  pockets  in  theatres  and  railway-stations,' 
continued  the  orator.  '  He  is  still  very  young, 
but  you  may  to  some  extent  judge  from  the 
delicacy  of  his  present  work  of  the  heights  he 


THE  OUTRAGE  118 

will  attain  by  diligence.  Yasha  !  '  A  swarthy 
youth  in  a  blue  silk  blouse  and  long  glace  boots, 
like  a  gipsy,  came  forward  with  a  swagger,  finger- 
ing the  tassels  of  his  belt,  and  merrily  screw- 
ing up  his  big,  impudent  black  eyes  with  yellow 
whites. 

'  Gentlemen,'  said  the  gentleman  in  the  sandy 
suit  persuasively, '  I  must  ask  if  one  of  you  would 
be  kind  enough  to  submit  himself  to  a  little  ex- 
periment. I  assure  you  this  will  be  an  exhi- 
bition only,  just  a  game.' 

He  looked  round  over  the  seated  company. 

The  short  plump  Karaim,  black  as  a  beetle, 
came  forward  from  his  table. 

'  At  your  service,'  he  said  amusingly. 

'  Yasha  !  '     The  orator  signed  with  his  head. 

Yasha  came  close  to  the  solicitor.  On  his 
left  arm,  which  was  bent,  hung  a  bright-coloured, 
figured  scarf. 

*  Suppose  yer  in  church,  or  at  a  bar  in  one  of 
the  'alls, — or  watchin'  a  circus,'  he  began  in  a 
sugary,  fluent  voice.  '  I  see  straight  off — 
there 's  a  toff.  .  .  .  Excuse  me,  sir.  Suppose 
you  're  the  toff.  There 's  no  offence — just 
means  a  rich  gent,  decent  enough,  but  don't 
know  his  way  about.  First — what 's  he  likely 
to  'ave  about  'im  ?  All  sorts.  Mostly,  a  ticker 
and  a  chain.  Whereabouts  does  'e  keep  'em. 
Somewhere  in  'is  top  weskit  pocket —  'ere. 
Others  'ave  'em  in  the  bottom  pocket.  Just 
'ere.  Purse — most  always  in  the  trousers, 
except  when  a  greeny  keeps  it  in  'is  jacket. 
Cigar-case.     'Ave  a  look  first  what  it  is — gold. 


114  THE  OUTRAGE 

silver — with  a  monogram.  Leather — wot  decent 
man  'd  soil  'is  'ands  ?  Cigar-case.  Seven  pockets : 
'ere,  'ere  'ere,  up  there,  there,  'ere  and  'ere  again. 
That 's  right,  ain't  it  ?  That 's  'ow  you  go  to 
work.' 

As  he  spoke  the  young  man  smiled.  His  eyes 
shone  straight  into  the  barrister's.  With  a 
quick,  dexterous  movement  of  his  right  hand 
he  pointed  to  various  portions  of  his  clothes. 

'  Then  agen  you  might  see  a  pin  'ere  in  the  tie. 
'Owever  we  do  not  appropriate.  Such  gents 
nowadays — they  'ardly  ever  wear  a  reel  stone. 
Then  I  comes  up  to  'im.  I  begin  straight  off  to 
talk  to  'im  like  a  gent :  "  Sir,  would  you  be  so 
kind  as  to  give  me  a  light  from  your  cigarette  " — 
or  something  of  the  sort.  At  any  rate,  I  enter 
into  conversation.  Wot 's  next  ?  I  look  'im 
straight  in  the  peepers,  just  like  this.  Only 
two  of  me  fingers  are  at  it — just  this  and  this.' 
Yasha  lifted  two  fingers  of  his  right  hand  on  a 
level  with  the  solicitor's  face,  the  forefinger  and 
the  middle  finger  and  moved  them  about. 

'  D'  you  see  ?  With  these  two  fingers  1  run 
over  the  'ole  planner.  Nothin'  wonderful  in  it : 
one,  two,  three — ready.  Any  man  who  wasn't 
stupid  could  learn  easily.  That 's  all  it  is. 
Most  ordinary  business.     I  thank  you.' 

The  pickpocket  swung  on  his  heel  as  if  to 
return  to  his  seat. 

'  Yasha  ! '  The  gentleman  in  the  sandy  suit 
said  with  meaning  weight.  '  Yasha  ! '  he  re- 
peated sternly. 

Yasha  stopped.     His  back  was  turned  to  the 


THE  OUTRAGE  115 

barrister,  but  he  evidently  gave  his  representa- 
tive an  imploring  look,  because  the  latter 
frowned  and  shook  his  head. 

'  Yasha  ! '  he  said  for  the  third  time,  in  a 
threatening  tone. 

'  Huh  ! '  The  young  thief  grunted  in  vexa- 
tion and  turned  to  face  the  solicitor.  '  Where  's 
your  little  лvatch,  sir  ?  '  he  said  in  a  piping  voice. 

'  Ach,'  the  Karaim  brought  himself  up  sharp. 

'  You  see — полу  you  say  "  Ach,"  '  Yasha  con- 
tinued reproachfully.  '  All  the  while  you  were 
admiring  me  right  'and,  I  лvas  operatin'  yer 
watch  with  my  left.  Just  with  these  two  little 
fingers,  under  the  scarf.  That 's  why  we  carry 
a  scarf.  Since  your  chain  's  not  worth  anything 
— a  present  from  some  mamselle  and  the  watch 
is  a  gold  one,  I  've  left  you  the  chain  as  a  keep- 
sake. Take  it,'  he  added  with  a  sigh,  holding 
out  the  watch. 

'  But  .  .  .  That  is  clever,'  the  barrister  said 
in  confusion.     '  I  didn't  notice  it  at  all.' 

'  That 's  our  business,'  Yasha  said  with  pride. 

He  swaggered  back  to  his  comrades.  Mean- 
time the  orator  took  a  drink  from  his  glass  and 
continued. 

'  Now,  gentlemen,  our  next  collaborator  will 
give  you  an  exhibition  of  some  ordinary  card 
tricks,  which  are  worked  at  fairs,  on  steamboats 
and  railways.  With  three  cards,  for  instance, 
an  ace,  a  queen,  and  a  six,  he  can  quite  easily.  .  .  . 
But  perhaps  you  are  tired  of  these  demonstra- 
tions, gentlemen.'  .  .  . 

'  Not  at  all.     It 's  extremely  interesting,'  the 


116  THE  OUTRAGE 

chairman  answered  affably.  '  I  should  like  to 
ask  one  question — that  is  if  it  is  not  too  indis- 
creet— what  is  your  own  speciality  ?  ' 

'  Mine  .  .  .  H'm.  .  .  .  No,  how  could  it  be 
an  indiscretion  ?  .  .  .  I  work  the  big  diamond 
shops  .  .  .  and  my  other  business  is  banks,' 
answered  the  orator  with  a  modest  smile.  '  Don't 
think  this  occupation  is  easier  than  others. 
Enough  that  I  know  four  European  languages, 
German,  French,  English,  and  Italian,  without 
speaking  of  Polish,  Ukrainian  and  Yiddish.  But 
shall  I  show  you  some  more  experiments,  Mr. 
Chairman  ?  ' 

The  chairman  looked  at  his  watch. 

'  Unfortunately  the  time  is  too  short,'  he  said. 
'  Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  pass  on  to  the  sub- 
stance of  your  business  ?  Besides  the  experi- 
ments we  have  just  seen  have  amply  convinced 
us  of  the  talent  of  your  esteemed  associates.  .  .  . 
Am  I  not  right,  Isaac  Abramovich  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  yes  .  .  .  absolutely,'  the  Karaim 
barrister  readily  confirmed. 

'  Admirable,'  the  gentleman  in  the  sandy  suit 
kindly  agreed.  '  My  dear  Count ' — he  turned  to 
a  blonde,  curly-haired  man,  with  a  face  like  a 
billiard-maker  on  a  bank-holiday — '  put  your 
instruments  away.  They  will  not  be  wanted.  I 
have  only  a  few  words  more  to  say,  gentlemen. 
Колу  that  you  have  convinced  yourselves  that 
our  art,  although  it  does  not  enjoy  the  patronage 
of  high-placed  individuals,  is  nevertheless  an  art; 
and  you  have  probably  come  to  my  opinion  that 
this  art  is  one  which  demands  many  personal 


THE  OUTRAGE  117 

qualities  besides  constant  labour,  danger,  and 
unpleasant  misunderstandings — you  will  also, 
I  hope,  believe  that  it  is  possible  to  become 
attached  to  its  practice  and  to  love  and  esteem 
it,  however  strange  that  may  appear  at  first 
sight.  Picture  to  yourselves  that  a  famous 
poet  of  talent,  whose  tales  and  poems  adorn  the 
pages  of  our  best  magazines,  is  suddenly  offered 
the  chance  of  writing  verses  at  a  penny  a  line, 
signed  into  the  bargain,  as  an  advertisement  for 
"  Cigarettes  Jasmine  " — or  that  a  slander  was 
spread  about  one  of  you  distinguished  barristers, 
accusing  him  of  making  a  business  of  concocting 
evidence  for  divorce  cases,  or  of  writing  petitions 
from  the  cabmen  to  the  governor  in  public- 
houses  !  Certainly  your  relatives,  friends  and 
acquaintances  wouldn't  believe  it.  But  the 
rumour  has  already  done  its  poisonous  work, 
and  you  have  to  live  through  minutes  of  torture. 
Now  picture  to  yourselves  that  such  a  disgraceful 
and  vexatious  slander,  started  by  God  knows 
whom,  begins  to  threaten  not  only  your  good 
name  and  your  quiet  digestion,  but  your 
freedom,  your  health,  and  even  your  life  ! 

'  This  is  the  position  of  us  thieves,  now  being 
slandered  by  the  newspapers.  I  must  explain. 
There  is  in  existence  a  class  of  scum — passez- 
moi  le  mot — whom  we  call  their  "  Mothers' 
Darlings."  With  these  we  are  unfortunately  con- 
fused. They  have  neither  shame  nor  conscience, 
a  dissipated  riff-raff,  mothers'  useless  darlings, 
idle,  clumsy  drones,  shop  assistants  who  commit 
unskilful  thefts.     He  thinks  nothing  of  living 


118  THE  OUTRAGE 

on  his  mistress,  a  prostitute,  like  the  male 
mackerel,  who  always  swims  after  the  female 
and  lives  on  her  excrements.  He  is  capable  of 
robbing  a  child  with  violence  in  a  dark  alley, 
in  order  to  get  a  penny  :  he  will  kill  a  man  in 
his  sleep  and  torture  an  old  woman.  These  men 
are  the  pests  of  our  profession.  For  them  the 
beauties  and  the  traditions  of  the  art  have  no 
existence.  They  watch  us  real,  talented  thieves 
like  a  pack  of  jackals  after  a  lion.  Suppose  I  've 
managed  to  bring  off  an  important  job — we 
won't  mention  the  fact  that  I  have  to  leave 
two-thirds  of  what  I  get  to  the  receivers 
who  sell  the  goods  and  discount  the  notes,  or 
the  customary  subsidies  to  our  incorruptible 
police — I  still  have  to  share  out  something 
to  each  one  of  these  parasites,  who  have  got 
wind  of  my  job,  by  accident,  hearsay,  or  a 
casual  glance. 

*  So  we  call  them  Motients,  which  means ' '  half,' ' 
a  corruption  of  moitie.  .  .  .  Original  etymology. 
I  pay  him  only  because  he  knows  and  may  in- 
form against  me.  And  it  mostly  happens  that 
even  when  he  's  got  his  share  he  runs  off  to  the 
police  in  order  to  get  another  half-sovereign. 
We,  honest  thieves.  .  .  .  Yes,  you  may  laugh, 
gentlemen,  but  I  repeat  it :  луе  honest  thieves 
detest  these  reptiles.  We  have  another  name 
for  them,  a  stigma  of  ignominy ;  but  I  dare 
not  utter  it  here  out  of  respect  for  the  place  and 
for  my  audience.  Oh,  yes,  they  would  gladlj' 
accept  an  invitation  to  a  pogrom.  The  thought 
that  we  may  be  confused  with  them  is  a  hundred 


THE  OUTRAGE  119 

times  more  insulting  to  us  even  than  the  accusa- 
tion of  taking  part  in  a  pogrom. 

'  Gentlemen  !  While  I  have  been  speaking, 
I  have  often  noticed  smiles  on  your  faces.  I 
understand  you  :  our  presence  here,  our  applica- 
tion for  your  assistance,  and  above  all  the  unex- 
pectedness of  such  a  phenomenon  as  a  syste- 
matic organisation  of  thieves,  with  delegates  who 
are  thieves,  and  a  leader  of  the  deputation,  also 
a  thief  by  profession — it  is  all  so  original  that  it 
must  inevitably  arouse  a  smile.  But  now  I  will 
speak  from  the  depth  of  my  heart.  Let  us  be 
rid  of  our  outward  wrappings,  gentlemen,  let  us 
speak  as  men  to  men. 

'  Almost  all  of  us  are  educated,  and  all  love 
books.  We  don't  only  read  the  adventures  of 
Roqueambole,  as  the  realistic  writers  say  of  us. 
Do  you  think  our  hearts  did  not  bleed  and  our 
cheeks  did  not  burn  from  shame,  as  though  we 
had  been  slapped  in  the  face,  all  the  time  that 
this  unfortunate,  disgraceful,  accursed,  cowardly 
war  lasted.  Do  you  really  think  that  our  souls 
do  not  flame  with  anger  when  our  country  is 
lashed  with  Cossack-Avhips,  and  trodden  under- 
foot, shot  and  spit  at  by  mad,  exasperated  men  ? 
Will  you  not  believe  that  we  thieves  meet 
every  step  towards  the  liberation  to  come  with 
a  thrill  of  ecstasy  ? 

'  W^e  understand,  every  one  of  us — perhaps 
only  a  little  less  than  you  barristers,  gentlemen 
— the  real  sense  of  the  pogroms.  Every  time 
that  some  dastardly  event  or  some  ignomini- 
ous   failure    has    occurred,   after    executing    a 


120  THE  OUTRAGE 

martyr  in  a  dark  corner  of  a  fortress,  or  after 
deceiving  public  confidence,  some  one  who  is 
hidden  and  unapproachable  gets  frightened  of  the 
people's  anger  and  diverts  its  vicious  element 
upon  the  heads  of  innocent  Jews.  Whose  dia- 
bolical mind  invents  these  pogroms — these 
titanic  blood-lettings,  these  cannibal  amuse- 
ments for  the  dark,  bestial  souls  ? 

'  We  all  see  with  certain  clearness  that  the  last 
convulsions  of  the  bureaucracy  are  at  hand. 
Forgive  me  if  I  present  it  imaginatively.  There 
was  a  people  that  had  a  chief  temple,  wherein 
dwelt  a  bloodthirsty  deity,  behind  a  curtain, 
guarded  by  priests.  Once  fearless  hands  tore 
the  curtain  away.  Then  all  the  people  saw,  in- 
stead of  a  god,  a  huge,  shaggy,  voracious  spider, 
like  a  loathsome  cuttlefish.  They  beat  it  and 
shoot  at  it  :  it  is  dismembered  already  ;  but  still 
in  the  frenzy  of  its  final  agony  it  stretches  over 
all  the  ancient  temple  its  disgusting,  clawing 
tentacles.  And  the  priests,  themselves  under 
sentence  of  death,  push  into  the  monster's 
grasp  all  whom  they  can  seize  in  their  terrified, 
trembling  fingers. 

*  Forgive  me.  What  I  have  said  is  probably 
wild  and  incoherent.  But  I  am  somewhat 
agitated.  Forgive  me.  I  continue.  We  thieves 
by  profession  know  better  than  any  one  else  how 
these  pogroms  were  organised.  We  wander 
everywhere :  into  public  houses,  markets,  tea- 
shops,  doss-houses,  public  places,  the  harbour. 
We  can  swear  before  God  and  man  and  posterity 
that  we  have  seen  how  the  police  organise  the 


THE  OUTRAGE  121 

massacres,  without  shame  and  almost  without 
concealment.  We  кполу  them  all  by  face,  in 
uniform  or  disguise.  They  invited  many  of  us 
to  take  part ;  but  there  was  none  so  vile  among 
us  as  to  give  even  the  outward  consent  that  fear 
might  have  extorted. 

'  You  know,  of  course,  how  the  various  strata  of 
Russian  society  behave  towards  the  police  ?  It 
is  not  even  respected  by  those  who  avail  them- 
selves of  its  dark  services.  But  we  despise  and 
hate  it  three,  ten  times  more — not  because  many 
of  us  have  been  tortured  in  the  detective  depart- 
ments, лvhich  are  just  chambers  of  horror,  beaten 
almost  to  death,  beaten  with  whips  of  ox-hide 
and  of  rubber  in  order  to  extort  a  confession  or 
to  make  us  betray  a  comrade.  Yes,  we  hate 
them  for  that  too.  But  we  thieves,  all  of  us  who 
have  been  in  prison,  have  a  mad  passion  for 
freedom.  Therefore  луе  despise  our  gaolers  with 
all  the  hatred  that  a  human  heart  can  feel.  I 
will  speak  for  myself.  I  have  been  tortured 
three  times  by  police  detectives  till  I  was  half 
dead.  My  lungs  and  liver  have  been  shattered. 
In  the  mornings  I  spit  blood  until  I  can  breathe 
no  more.  But  if  I  were  told  that  I  will  be  spared 
a  fourth  flogging  only  by  shaking  hands  with  a 
chief  of  the  detective  police,  I  would  refuse  to 
do  it  ! 

'  And  then  the  newspapers  say  that  we  took 
from  these  hands  Judas-money,  dripping  лvith 
human  blood.  No,  gentlemen,  it  is  a  slander 
which  stabs  our  very  soul,  and  inflicts  insuffer- 
able pain.     Not  money,  nor  threats,  nor  pro- 


122  THE  OUTRAGE 

mises  will  suffice  to  make  us  mercenary  murderers 
of  our  brethren,  nor  accomplices  with  them.' 

'  Never  .  .  .  No  .  .  .  No  .  .  ,'  his  comrades 
standing  behind  him  began  to  murmur. 

'  I  лvill  say  more,'  the  thief  continued.  '  Many 
of  us  protected  the  victims  during  this  pogrom. 
Our  friend,  called  Sesoi  the  Great — you  have 
just  seen  him,  gentlemen — was  then  lodging 
with  a  Jewish  braid-maker  on  the  Moldavanka. 
With  a  poker  in  his  hands  he  defended  his  land- 
lord from  a  great  horde  of  assassins.  It  is  true, 
Sesoi  the  Great  is  a  man  of  enormous  physical 
strength,  and  this  is  well  known  to  many  of  the 
inhabitants  of  the  Moldavanka.  But  you  must 
agree,  gentlemen,  that  in  these  moments  Sesoi 
the  Great  looked  straight  into  the  face  of  death. 
Our  comrade  Martin  the  Miner — this  gentleman 
here  ' — the  orator  pointed  to  a  pale,  bearded  man 
with  beautiful  eyes  who  was  holding  himself  in 
the  background — '  saved  an  old  Jewess,  whom 
he  had  never  seen  before,  who  was  being  pursued 
by  a  croAvd  of  these  canaille.  They  broke  his 
head  with  a  crowbar  for  his  pains,  smashed  his 
arm  in  two  places  and  splintered  a  rib.  He  is 
only  just  out  of  hospital.  That  is  the  way  our 
most  ardent  and  determined  members  acted. 
The  others  trembled  for  anger  and  wept  for 
their  own  impotence. 

'  None  of  us  will  forget  the  horrors  of  those 
bloody  days  and  bloody  nights  lit  up  by  the 
glare  of  fires,  those  sobbing  луотеп,  those  little 
children's  bodies  torn  to  pieces  and  left  lying  in 
the  street.     But  for  all  that  not  one  of  us  thinks 


THE  OUTRAGE  123 

that  the  poHce  and  the  mob  are  the  real  origin  of 
the  evil.  These  tiny,  stupid,  loathsome  vermin 
are  only  a  senseless  fist  that  is  governed  by  a 
vile,  calculating  mind,  moved  by  a  diabolical  mil. 

'  Yes,  gentlemen,'  the  orator  continued,  '  we 
thieves  have  nevertheless  merited  your  legal 
contempt.  But  when  you,  noble  gentlemen,  need 
the  help  of  clever,  brave,  obedient  men  at  the 
barricades,  men  who  will  be  ready  to  meet  death 
with  a  song  and  a  jest  on  their  lips  for  the  most 
glorious  word  in  the  world — Freedom — will  you 
cast  us  off  then  and  order  us  away  because  of  an 
inveterate  revulsion  ?  Damn  it  all,  the  first 
victim  in  the  French  Revolution  was  a  prosti- 
tute. She  j'umped  up  on  to  a  barricade,  with 
her  skirt  caught  elegantly  up  into  her  hand  and 
called  out :  "  ^^Ъich  of  you  soldiers  лу111  dare 
to  shoot  a  woman  ? "  Yes,  by  God.'  The 
orator  exclaimed  aloud  and  brought  down  his 
fist  on  to  the  marble  table  top  :  '  They  killed 
her,  but  her  action  луаз  magnificent,  and  the 
beauty  of  her  words  immortal. 

'  If  you  should  drive  us  away  on  the  great  day, 
we  will  turn  to  you  and  say:  "You  spotless 
Cherubim — if  human  thoughts  had  the  power 
to  wound,  kill,  and  rob  man  of  honour  and  pro- 
perty, then  which  of  you  innocent  doves  would 
not  deserve  the  knout  and  imprisonment  for 
life  ?  "  Then  we  will  go  away  from  you  and  build 
our  own  gay,  sporting,  desperate  thieves'  barri- 
cade, and  will  die  with  such  united  songs  on  our 
lips  that  you  will  envy  us,  you  who  are  лvhiter 
than  snow  ! 


124  THE  OUTRAGE 

'  But  I  have  been  once  more  carried  away. 
Forgive  me.  I  am  at  the  end.  You  now  see, 
gentlemen,  what  feehngs  the  newspaper  slanders 
have  excited  in  us.  Believe  in  our  sincerity  and 
do  what  you  can  to  remove  the  filthy  stain  which 
has  so  unjustly  been  cast  upon  us.  I  have 
finished.' 

He  went  away  from  the  table  and  joined  his 
comrades.  The  barristers  were  whispering  in  an 
undertone,  very  much  as  the  magistrates  of  the 
bench  at  sessions.     Then  the  chairman  rose. 

'  We  trust  you  absolutely,  and  we  will  make 
every  effort  to  clear  your  association  of  this 
most  grievous  charge.  At  the  same  time  my 
colleagues  have  authorised  me,  gentlemen,  to 
convey  to  you  their  deep  respect  for  your 
passionate  feelings  as  citizens.  And  for  my  own 
part  I  ask  the  leader  of  the  deputation  for  per- 
mission to  shake  him  by  the  hand.' 

The  two  men,  both  tall  and  serious,  held  each 
other's  hands  in  a  strong,  masculine  grip. 

The  barristers  were  leaving  the  theatre  ;  but 
four  of  them  hung  back  a  little  by  the  clothes 
peg  in  the  hall.  Isaac  Abramovich  could  not 
find  his  new,  smart  grey  hat  anywhere.  In  its 
place  on  the  wooden  peg  hung  a  cloth  cap 
jauntily  flattened  in  on  either  side. 

'  Yasha  ! '  The  stern  voice  of  the  orator  was 
suddenly  heard  from  the  other  side  of  the  door. 
'  Yasha  !  It 's  the  last  time  I  '11  speak  to  you, 
curse  you  !  .  .  .  Do  you  hear  ?  ' 

The  heavy  door  opened  wide.     The  gentleman 


THE  OUTRAGE  125 

in  the  sandy  suit  entered.  In  his  hands  he  held 
Isaac  Abramovich's  hat ;  on  his  face  was  a  well- 
bred  smile. 

'  Gentlemen,  for  Heaven's  sake  forgive  us — 
an  odd  little  misunderstanding.  One  of  our 
comrades  exchanged  his  hat  quite  by  accident. 
.  .  .  Oh,  it  is  yours  !  A  thousand  pardons. 
Doorkeeper  !  Why  don't  you  keep  an  eye  on 
things,  my  good  fellow,  eh  ?  Just  give  me  that 
cap,  there.  Once  more,  I  ask  you  to  forgive  me, 
gentlemen.' 

With  a  pleasant  bow  and  the  same  well-bred 
smile  he  made  his  way  quickly  into  the  street. 


IV 
THE   WITCH 


THE  WITCH 

(olyessia) 

I 

Yarmola  the  gamekeeper,  my  servant,  cook, 
and  fellow-hunter,  entered  the  room  with  a  load 
of  wood  on  his  shoulder,  threлv  it  heavily  on  the 
floor,  and  blew  on  his  frozen  fingers. 

'  What  a  wind  there  is  outside,  sir,'  he  said, 
squatting  on  his  heels  in  front  of  the  oven  door. 
'  We  must  make  a  good  fire  in  the  stove.  Will 
you  give  me  a  match,  please  ?  ' 

'  It  means  we  shan't  have  a  chance  at  the 
hares  to-morroAV,  eh  ?  What  do  you  think, 
Yarmola  ?  ' 

'  No.  .  .  .  Out  of  the  question.  .  .  .  Do  you 
hear  the  snowstorm  ?  The  hares  lie  still — no 
sound.  .  .  .  You  won't  see  a  single  track  to- 
morrow.' 

Fate  had  thrown  me  for  a  whole  six  months 
into  a  dull  little  village  in  Volhymnia,  on  the 
border  of  Polyessie,  and  hunting  was  my  sole 
occupation  and  delight.  I  confess  that  at  the 
time  when  the  business  in  the  village  was  offered 
me,  I  had  no  idea  that  I  should  feel  so  intoler- 
ably dull.  I  went  even  with* joy.  'Polyessie 
...  a  remote  place  .  .  .  the  bosom  of  Nature 
.  .  .  simple     ways  .  .  .  primitive    natures,'    I 

I 


130  THE  WITCH 

thought  as  I  sat  in  the  railway  carriage,  '  com- 
pletely unfamiliar  people,  with  strange  customs 
and  a  curious  language  .  .  .  and  there  are  sure 
to  be  thousands  of  romantic  legends,  traditions, 
and  songs  !  '  At  that  time — since  I  have  to 
confess,  I  may  as  well  confess  everything — I  had 
already  published  a  story  with  two  murders  and 
one  suicide  in  an  unknown  newspaper,  and  I 
кпелу  theoretically  that  it  was  useful  for  writers 
to  observe  customs. 

But — either  the  peasants  of  Perebrod  were 
distinguished  by  a  particularly  obstinate  un- 
communicativeness,  or  I  myself  did  not  know 
how  to  approach  them — my  relations  with  them 
went  no  further  than  that  when  they  saw  me  a 
mile  off  they  took  off  their  caps,  and  when  they 
came  alongside  said  sternly,  '  God  with  you,' 
which  should  mean  '  God  help  you.'  And  when 
I  attempted  to  enter  into  conversation  with  them 
they  looked  at  me  in  bewilderment,  refused  to 
understand  the  simplest  questions,  and  tried  all 
the  while  to  kiss  my  hands — a  habit  that  has 
survived  from  their  Polish  serfdom. 

I  read  all  the  books  I  had  with  me  very  soon. 
Out  of  boredom — though  at  first  it  seemed  to  me 
very  unpleasant — I  made  an  attempt  to  get  to 
know  the  local  '  intellectuals,'  a  Catholic  priest 
who  lived  fifteen  versts  away,  the  gentleman 
organist  who  lived  with  him,  the  local  police- 
sergeant,  and  the  bailiff  of  the  neighbouring 
estate,  a  retired  jion-commissioned  officer.  But 
nothing  came  of  it. 

Then  I  tried  to  occupy  myself  with  doctoring 


THE  WITCH  181 

the  inhabitants  of  Perebrod.  I  had  at  my 
disposal  castor-oil,  carbolic  acid,  boracic,  and 
iodine.  But  here,  besides  the  scantiness  of  my 
knowledge,  I  came  up  against  the  complete  im- 
possibility of  making  a  diagnosis,  because  the 
symptoms  of  all  patients  were  exactly  the  same  : 
'  I  've  got  a  pain  inside,'  and  '  I  can't  take  bite 
nor  sup.' 

For  instance  an  old  woman  comes  to  me. 
With  a  disturbed  look  she  wipes  her  nose  with 
the  forefinger  of  her  right  hand.  I  catch  a 
glimpse  of  her  brown  skin  as  she  takes  a  couple 
of  eggs  from  her  bosom,  and  puts  them  on  the 
table.  Then  she  begins  to  seize  my  hands  in 
order  to  plant  a  kiss  on  them.  I  hide  them  and 
persuade  the  old  woman  :  '  Come,  granny  .  .  . 
don't.  .  .  .  I  'm  not  a  priest  ...  I  have  no 
right.  .  .  .  What 's  the  matter  with  you  ?  ' 

'  I  've  got  a  pain  in  the  inside,  sir  ;  just  right 
inside,  so  that  I  can't  take  nor  bite  nor  sup.' 

'  Have  you  had  it  long  ?  ' 

'  How  do  I  know  ? '  she  answers  with  a 
question.  '  It  just  burns,  burns  all  the  while. 
Not  a  bite,  nor  a  sup.' 

However  much  I  try,  I  can  get  no  more  definite 
symptoms. 

'  Don't  you  worry,'  the  non.-com.  bailiff  once 
said  to  me.  '  They  '11  cure  themselves.  It  *11 
dry  on  them  like  a  dog.  I  beg  you  to  note  I 
use  only  one  medicine — sal-volatile.  A  peasant 
comes  to  me.  "  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  "I 'm 
ill,"  says  he.  I  just  run  off  for  the  bottle  of  sal- 
volatile.     "  Sniff ! "...  he  sniffsl.  ..."  Sniff 


182  THE  WITCH 

again  ...  go  on  !  "  He  sniffs  again.  "  Feel 
better  ?  "  "I  do  seem  to  feel  better."  "  Well, 
then,  be  off,  and  God  be  with  you."  ' 

Besides  I  did  not  at  all  like  the  kissing  of  my 
hands.  (Some  just  fell  at  my  feet  and  did  all 
they  could  to  kiss  my  boots.)  For  it  wasn't  by 
any  means  the  emotion  of  a  grateful  heart,  but 
simply  a  loathsome  habit,  rooted  in  them  by 
centuries  of  slavery  and  brutality.  And  I  could 
only  wonder  at  the  non.-com.  bailiff  and  the 
police-sergeant  when  I  saw  the  imperturbable 
gravity  with  which  they  shoved  their  enormous 
red  hands  to  the  peasants'  lips.  .  .  . 

Only  hunting  was  left.  But  with  the  end  of 
January  came  such  terrible  weather  that  even 
hunting  was  impossible.  Every  day  there  was 
an  awful  wind,  and  during  the  night  a  hard  icy 
crust  formed  on  the  snow,  on  which  the  hares 
could  run  without  leaving  a  trace.  As  I  sat  shut 
up  in  the  house  listening  to  the  howling  wind,  I 
felt  terribly  sad,  and  I  eagerly  seized  such  an 
innocent  distraction  as  teaching  Yarmola  the 
gamekeeper  to  read  and  write. 

It  came  about  quite  curiously.  Once  I  was 
writing  a  letter,  when  suddenly  I  felt  that  some 
one  was  behind  me.  Turning  round  I  saw 
Yarmola,  who  had  approached  noiselessly,  as  his 
habit  was,  in  his  soft  bast  shoes. 

'  What  d'  you  want,  Yarmola  ?  '  I  asked. 

'  I  was  only  looking  how  you  write.  I  wish 
I  could.  .  .  .  No,  no  .  .  .  not  like  you,'  he 
began  hastily,  seeing  me  smile.  '  I  only  wish  I 
could  write  my  name.' 


THE  WITCH  133 

'  Why  do  you  want  to  do  that  ?  '  I  was  sur- 
prised. (It  must  be  remembered  that  Yarm.ola 
is  supposed  to  be  the  poorest  and  laziest  peasant 
in  the  whole  of  Perebrod.  His  wages  and  earn- 
ings go  in  drink.  There  isn't  such  another  scare- 
crow even  among  the  local  oxen.  I  thought 
that  he  would  have  been  the  last  person  to  find 
reading  and  writing  necessary.)  I  asked  him 
again,  doubtfully  : 

'  What  do  you  want  to  know  how  to  write 
your  name  for  ?  ' 

'  You  see  how  it  stands,  sir.'  Yarmola 
answered  with  extraordinary  softness.  '  There 
isn't  a  single  man  who  can  read  and  write  in  the 
village.  When  there  's  a  paper  to  be  signed  or 
some  business  to  be  done  on  the  council  or  any- 
thing .  .  .  nobody  can.  .  .  .  The  mayor  only 
puts  the  seal ;  but  he  doesn't  know  what 's  in 
the  paper.  It  would  be  a  good  thing  for  every- 
body if  one  of  us  could  write  his  name.' 

Yarmola' s  solicitude — Yarmola,  a  known 
poacher,  an  idle  vagabond,  whose  opinion  the 
village  council  would  never  dream  of  considering 
— this  solicitude  of  his  for  the  public  interest 
of  his  native  village  somehow  moved  me.  I 
offered  to  give  him  lessons  myself.  What  a  job 
it  was — my  attempt  to  teach  him  to  read  and 
write  !  Yarmola,  who  knew  to  perfection  every 
path  in  the  forest,  almost  every  tree  ;  who  could 
find  his  whereabouts  day  and  night,  no  matter 
where  he  was ;  who  could  distinguish  all  the 
wolves,  hares,  and  foxes  of  the  neighbourhood  by 
their  spoor — this  same  Yarmola  could  not  for 


184.  THE  WITCH 

the  life  of  him  see  why,  for  instance,  the  letters 
m  and  a  together  make  ma.  In  front  of  that 
problem  he  usually  thought  painfully  for  ten 
minutes  and  more,  and  his  lean  swarthy  face  with 
its  sunken  black  eyes,  which  had  been  com- 
pletely absorbed  into  a  stiff  black  beard  and  a 
generous  moustache,  betrayed  an  extremity  of 
mental  strain. 

'  Come,  Yarmola,  say  ma.  Just  say  ma 
simply,'  I  urged  him.  '  Don't  look  at  the  paper. 
Look  at  me,  so.     Now  say  ma.' 

Yarmola  would  then  heave  a  deep  sigh,  put 
the  horn -book  on  the  table,  and  announce  with 
sad  determination : 

'  No,  I  can't.  .  .  .' 

'  Why  can't  you  ?  It 's  so  easy.  Just  say 
ma  simply,  just  as  I  say  it.' 

'  No,  sir,  I  cannot  ...  I  've  forgotten.' 

All  my  methods,  my  devices  and  comparisons 
were  being  shattered  by  this  monstrous  lack 
of  understanding.  But  Yarmola' s  longing  for 
knowledge  did  not  weaken  at  all. 

'  If  I  could  only  write  my  name  ! '  Yarmola 
begged  me  bashfully.  '  I  don't  want  anything 
else.  Only  my  name  :  Yarmola  Popruzhuk — 
that 's  all.' 

p  When  I  finally  abandoned  the  idea  of  teach- 
ing him  to  read  and  write  properly,  I  began 
to  show  him  how  to  sign  his  name  mechani- 
cally. To  my  amazement  this  method  seemed 
to  be  the  easiest  for  Yarmola,  and  at  the  end 
of  two  months  he  had  very  nearly  mastered 
his  name.     As  for  his  Christian  name  we  had 


THE  WITCH  135 

decided  to  make  the  task  easier  by  leaving  it 
out  altogether. 

Every  evening,  after  he  had  finished  filling 
the  stoves,  Yarmola  waited  on  patiently  until  I 
called  him. 

'  Well,  Yarmola,  let 's  have  a  go  at  it,'  I  would 
say.  He  would  sidle  up  to  the  table,  lean  on  it 
with  his  elbows,  thrust  his  pen  through  his  black, 
shrivelled,  stiff  fingers,  and  ask  me,  raising  his 
eyebrows  : 

*  Shall  I  write  ?  ' 
'  Yes,  write.' 

Yarmola  drew  the  first  letter  quite  confi- 
dently— P  1.  (This  letter  was  called  *  a  couple 
of  posts  and  a  crossbeam  on  top.')  Then  he 
looked  at  me  questioningly. 

'  Why  don't  you  go  on  writing  ?  Have  you 
forgotten  ?  ' 

'  I  've  forgotten.'  Yarmola  shook  his  head 
angrily. 

'  Heavens,  what  a  fellow  you  are !  Well, 
make  a  wheel.' 

*  Ah,  a  wheel,  a  wheel  I  ...  I  know.  .  .  .' 
Yarmola  cheered  up,  and  diligently  drew 
an  elongated  figure  on  the  paper,  in  out- 
line very  like  the  Caspian  Sea.  After  this 
labour  he  admired  the  result  in  silence 
for  some  time,  bending  his  head  now  to  the 
left,  then  to  the  right,  and  screwing  up  his 
eyes. 

'  Why  have  you  stopped  there  ?     Go  on.' 

*  Wait  a  little,  sir  .  .  .  presently.' 

1  The  Russian  P  is  shaped  П,  as  in  Greek. 


136  THE  WITCH 

He  thought  for  a  couple  of  minutes  and  then 
asked  timidly  : 

'  Same  as  the  first  ?  ' 

'  Right.     Just  the  same.' 

So  little  by  little  we  came  to  the  last  letter 
'  k,'  which  we  knew  as  '  a  stick  with  a  crooked 
twig  tilted  sideways  in  the  middle  of  it.' 

'  What  do  you  think,  sir  ? '  Yarmola  would  say 
sometimes  after  finishing  his  Avork  and  looking 
at  it  with  great  pride  ;  '  if  I  go  on  learning  like 
this  for  another  five  or  six  months  I  shall  be 
quite  a  learned  chap.     What 's  your  idea  ?  ' 


THE  WITCH  137 


II 

Yarmola  was  squatting  on  his  heels  in  front  of 
the  stove  door,  poking  the  coals  in  the  stove, 
while  I  walked  from  corner  to  corner  of  the  room. 
Of  all  the  twelve  rooms  of  the  huge  country 
house  I  occupied  only  one — the  lounge  that  used 
to  be.  The  other  rooms  were  locked  up,  and 
there,  grave  and  motionless,  mouldered  the  old 
brocaded  furniture,  the  rare  bronzes,  and  the 
eighteenth-century  portraits. 

The  wind  was  raging  round  the  walls  of  the . 
house  like  an  old  naked,  frozen  devil.  Towards 
evening  the  snowstorm  became  more  violent. 
Some  one  outside  was  furiously  throwing  hand- 
fuls  of  fine  dry  snow  at  the  window-panes.  The 
forest  near  by  moaned  and  roared  with  a  dull, 
hidden,  incessant  menace.  .  .  . 

The  wind  stole  into  the  empty  rooms  and 
the  howling  chimneys.  The  old  house,  weak 
throughout,  full  of  holes  and  half  decayed, 
suddenly  became  alive  with  strange  sounds  to 
which  I  listened  with  involuntary  anxiety.  Into 
the  white  drawing-room  there  broke  a  deep- 
drawn  sigh,  in  a  sad  worn-out  voice.  In  the 
distance  somewhere  the  dry  and  rotten  floor- 
boards began  to  creak  under  some  one's  heavy, 
silent  tread.  I  think  that  some  one  in  the 
corridor  beside  my  room  is  pressing  with  cautious 


138  THE  WITCH 

persistence  on  the  door-handle,  and  then,  sud- 
denly grown  furious,  rushes  all  over  the  house 
madly  shaking  all  the  shutters  and  doors.  Or 
he  gets  into  the  chimney  and  whines  so  mourn- 
fully, wearily,  incessantly — now  raising  his  voice 
higher  and  higher,  thinner  and  thinner,  all  the 
while,  till  it  becomes  a  wailing  shriek,  then  lower- 
ing it  again  to  a  wild  beast's  growling.  Some- 
times this  terrible  guest  would  rush  into  my 
room  too,  run  with  a  sudden  coldness  over  my 
back  and  flicker  the  lamp  flame,  which  gave  a 
dim  light  from  under  a  green  paper  shade, 
scorched  at  the  top. 

There  came  upon  me  a  strange,  vague  uneasi- 
ness. I  thought :  Here  am  I  sitting,  this  bad, 
stormy  night,  in  a  rickety  house,  in  a  village  lost 
in  woods  and  snowdrifts,  hundreds  of  miles 
from  town  life,  from  society,  from  woman's 
laughter  and  human  conversation.  .  .  .  And  I 
began  to  feel  that  this  stormy  evening  would 
drag  on  for  years  and  tens  of  years.  The  wind 
will  whine  outside  the  windows,  as  it  is  whining 
now ;  the  lamp  will  burn  dimly  under  the  paltry 
green  shade,  as  it  burns  now  ;  I  will  walk  just  as 
breathlessly  up  and  down  my  room,  and  the 
silent,  intent  Yarmola  will  sit  so  by  the  stove, 
a  strange  creature,  alien  to  me,  indifferent  to 
everything  in  the  world,  indifferent  that  his 
family  has  nothing  to  eat,  to  the  raging  wind, 
and  my  own  vague  consuming  anxiety. 
i  Suddenly  I  felt  an  intolerable  desire  to  break 
this  anxious  silence  \vith  some  semblance  of  a 
human  voice,  and  I  asked  : 


THE  WITCH  189 

'  Why  is  there  such  a  wind  to-day  ?  What  do 
you  think,  Yarmola  ?  ' 

'  The  wind  ?  '  Yarmola  muttered,  lazily  lift- 
ing his  head.     '  Don't  you  really  know  ?  ' 

'  Of  course  I  don't.     How  could  I  ?  ' 

'  Truly,  you  don't  know  ?  '  Yarmola  livened 
suddenly.  '  I  '11  tell  you,'  he  continued  with  a 
mysterious  note  in  his  voice.  '  I  '11  tell  you  this. 
Either  a  witch  is  being  born,  or  a  wizard  is 
having  a  wedding-party.' 

'  A  witch  ?  .  .  .  Does  that  mean  a  sorceress 
in  your  place  ?  ' 

'  Exactly  ...  a  sorceress.' 

I  caught  up  Yarmola  eagerly.  '  Who  knows,' 
I  thought,  '  perhaps  I  '11  manage  to  get  an  in- 
teresting story  out  of  him  presently,  all  about 
magic,  and  buried  treasure,  and  devils.' 

'  Have  you  got  witches  here,  in  Polyessie  ?  '  I 
asked. 

'  I  don't  know  .  .  .  may  be,'  Yarmola  an- 
swered with  his  usual  indifference,  bending  down 
to  the  stove  again.  '  Old  folks  say  there  were 
once.  .  .  .  May  be  it 's  not  true.  .  .  .' 

I  was  disappointed.  Yarmola' s  characteristic 
trait  was  a  stubborn  silence,  and  I  had  already 
given  up  hope  of  getting  anything  more  out  of 
him  on  this  interesting  subject.  But  to  my 
surprise  he  suddenly  began  to  talk  with  a  lazy 
indifference  as  though  he  was  addressing  the 
roaring  stove  instead  of  me. 

'  There  was  a  witch  here,  five  years  back.  .  .  . 
But  the  boys  drove  her  out  of  the  village.' 

'  Where  did  they  drive  her  to  ?  ' 


140  THE  WITCH 

'  Where  to  ?  Into  the  forest,  of  course  .  .  . 
where  else  ?  And  they  pulled  her  cottage  down 
as  well,  so  that  there  shouldn't  be  a  splinter  of 
the  cursed  den  left.  .  .  .  And  they  took  her  to 
the  cross  roads.  .  .  .' 

'  Why  did  they  treat  her  like  that  ?  ' 

'  She  did  a  great  deal  of  harm.  She  quarrelled 
with  everybody,  poured  poison  beneath  the 
cottages,  tied  knots  in  the  corn.  .  .  .  Once  she 
asked  a  village  woman  for  fifteen  kopeks.  "  I 
haven't  got  a  sixpence,"  says  she.  "  Right," 
she  says,  "  I  '11  teach  you  not  to  give  me  a  six- 
jience."  And  what  do  you  think,  sir  ?  That 
very  day  the  woman's  child  began  to  be  ill.  It 
grew  worse  and  worse  and  then  died.  Then  it 
was  that  the  boys  drove  her  out — curse  her  for 
a  witch.' 

'  Well  .  .  .  where  's  the  witch  now  ?  '  I  was 
still  curious. 

'  The  witch  ?  '  Yarmola  slowly  repeated  the 
question,  as  his  habit  was.  '  How  should  I 
know  ?  ' 

'  Didn't  she  leave  any  relatives  in  the  village  ?  ' 

'  No,  not  one.  She  didn't  come  from  our 
village  ;  she  came  from  the  Big  Russians,  or  the 
gipsies.  I  was  still  a  tiny  boy  when  she  came 
to  our  village.  She  had  a  little  girl  with  her,  a 
daughter  or  grandchild.  .  .  .  They  were  both 
driven  out.' 

'  Doesn't  any  one  go  to  her  now — to  get^their 
fortunes  told  or  to  get  medicine  ?  ' 

'  The  womenfolk  do,'  Yarmola  said  scornfully. 

'  Ah,  so  it 's  known  where  she  lives  ?  ' 


THE  WITCH  141 

'  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Folks  say  she  lives  some- 
where near  the  Devil's  Corner.  .  .  .  You  know 
the  place — the  marsh  behind  the  Trine  road. 
She  lives  in  that  same  marsh.  May  her  mother 
burn  in  hell  ! ' 

'  A  witch  living  ten  versts  from  my  house  .  .  . 
a  real  live  Polyessie  witch  ! '  The  idea  instantly 
intrigued  and  excited  me. 

'  Look  here,  Yarmola,'  I  said  to  the  forester. 
'  How  could  I  get  to  know  the  witch  ?  ' 

'  Foo ! '  Yarmola  spat  in  indignation. 
'  That 's  a  nice  thing  ! ' 

'  Nice  or  nasty,  I  'm  going  to  her  all  the  same. 
As  soon  as  it  gets  a  little  warmer,  I  '11  go  off  at 
once.     You  '11  come  with  me,  of  course  ?  ' 

Yarmola  was  so  struck  by  my  last  words  that 
he  jumped  right  off  the  floor. 

'  Me  ?  '  he  cried  indignantly.  '  Not  for  a 
million  !  Come  what  may,  I  'm  not  going  with 
you.' 

'  Nonsense  ;  cf  course,  you  '11  come.' 

'  No,  sir,  I  will  not  .  .  .  not  for  anything.  .  .  . 
Me  ?  '  he  cried  again,  seized  with  a  new  exaspera- 
tion, '  go  to  a  witch's  den  ?  God  forbid  !  And 
I  advise  you  not  to  either,  sir.' 

'  As  you  please.  ...  I  '11  go  all  the  same. 
.  .  .  I  'm  very  curious  to  see  her.' 

'  There 's  nothing  curious  there,'  grunted 
Yarmola,  angrily  slamming  the  door  of  the  stove. 

An  hour  later,  when  he  had  taken  the  samovar 
off  the  table  and  drunk  his  tea  in  the  dark 
passage  and  was  preparing  to  go  home,  I  asked 
him : 


142  THE  WITCH 

'  What 's  the  witch's  name  ?  ' 

'  Manuihkha,'  rephed  Yarmola  with  sullen 
rudeness. 

Though  he  had  never  expressed  his  feelings, 
he  seemed  to  have  grown  greatly  attached  to 
me.  His  affection  came  from  our  mutual 
passion  for  hunting,  from  my  simple  behaviour, 
the  help  I  occasionally  gave  his  perpetually 
hungry  family,  and  above  all,  because  I  was  the 
only  person  in  the  world  who  did  not  scold  him 
for  his  drunkenness — a  thing  intolerable  to 
Yarmola.  That  was  why  my  determination  to 
make  the  acquaintance  of  the  лvitch  put  him 
into  such  an  ugly  temper,  which  he  relieved  only 
by  sniffing  more  vigorously,  and  finally  by  going 
off  to  the  back-staircase  and  kicking  his  dog 
Riabchik  Avith  all  his  might.  Riabchik  jumped 
aside  and  began  to  howl  desperately,  but  im- 
mediately ran  after  Yarmola,  still  whining. 


THE  WITCH  148 


III 

About  three  days  after  the  weather  grew 
warmer.  Very  early  one  morning  Yarmola 
came  into  my  room  and  said  carelessly : 

'  We  shall  have  to  clean  the  guns,  sir.' 

'  Why  ?  '  I  asked,  stretching  myself  under  the 
blankets. 

'  The  hares  have  been  busy  in  the  night. 
There  are  any  amount  of  tracks.  Shall  we  go 
after  them  ?  ' 

I  saw  that  Yarmola  was  waiting  impatiently 
to  go  to  the  forest,  but  he  hid  his  hunter's  passion 
beneath  an  assumed  indifference.  In  fact,  his 
single-barrelled  gun  was  in  the  passage  already. 
From  that  gun  not  a  single  лvoodcock  had 
ever  escaped,  for  all  that  it  was  adorned  with 
a  few  tin  patches,  and  spliced  over  the  places 
where  rust  and  powder  gas  had  corroded  the 
iron. 

No  sooner  had  we  entered  the  forest  than  we 
came  on  a  hare's  track.  The  hare  broke  out 
into  the  road,  ran  about  fifty  yards  along  it,  and 
then  made  a  huge  leap  into  the  fir  plantation. 

'  Now,  we  '11  get  him  in  a  moment,'  Yarmola 
said.  '  Since  he  's  shown  himself,  he  '11  die  here. 
You  go,  sir.  .  .  .'  He  pondered,  considering  by 
certain  signs  known  only  to  himself  where  he 
should  post  me.     '  You  go  to  the  old  inn.     And 


144  THE  WITCH 

I  '11  get  round  him  from  Zanilin.  As  soon  as 
the  dog  starts  him  I  '11  give  you  a  shout.' 

He  disappeared  instantly,  as  it  were,  plunging 
into  a  thick  jungle  of  brushwood.  I  listened. 
Not  a  sound  betrayed  his  poacher  movements ; 
not  a  twig  snapped  under  his  feet,  in  their  bast 
shoes.  Without  hurrying  myself  I  came  to  the 
inn,  a  ruined  and  deserted  hut,  and  I  stopped  on 
the  edge  of  a  young  pine  forest  beneath  a  tall 
fir  with  a  straight  bare  trunk.  It  was  quiet  as 
it  can  be  quiet  only  in  a  forest  on  a  windless 
winter  day.  The  branches  were  bent  with  the 
splendid  lumps  of  snow  which  clung  to  them, 
and  made  them  look  wonderful,  festive,  and  cold. 
Now  and  then  a  thin  little  twig  broke  off  from 
the  top,  and  with  extreme  clearness  one  could 
hear  it  as  it  fell  with  a  tiny  cracking  noise,  touch- 
ing other  twigs  in  its  fall.  The  snow  glinted 
rose  in  the  sun  and  blue  in  the  shadow.  I  fell 
under  the  quiet  spell  of  the  grave  cold  silence, 
and  I  seemed  to  feel  time  passing  by  me,  slowly 
and  noiselessly. 

Suddenly  far  away  in  the  thicket  came  the 
sound  of  Riabchik's  bark — the  peculiar  bark  of 
a  dog  following  a  scent,  a  thin,  nervous,  trilling 
bark  that  passes  almost  into  a  squeak.  I  heard 
Yarmola's  voice  immediately,  calling  angrily 
after  the  dog  :  '  Get  him  !  Get  him  ! '  the  first 
word  in  a  long-drawn  falsetto,  the  second  in  a 
short  bass  note. 

Judging  from  the  direction  of  the  bark,  I 
thought  the  dog  must  be  running  on  my  left, 
and  I  ran  quickly  across  the  meadow  to  get  level 


THE  WITCH  145 

with  the  hare.  I  hadn't  made  twenty  steps 
when  a  huge  grey  hare  jumped  out  from  behind 
a  stump,  laid  back  his  long  ears  and  ran  leisurely 
across  the  road  with  high  delicate  leaps,  and 
hid  himself  in  a  plantation.  After  him  came 
Riabchik  at  full  tilt.  When  he  saw  me  he 
wagged  his  tail  faintly,  snapped  at  the  snow 
several  times  with  his  teeth,  and  chased  the  hare 
again. 

Suddenly  Yarmola  plunged  out  from  the 
thicket  as  noiselessly  as  the  dog. 

'  Why  didn't  you  get  across  him,  sir  ?  '  he  ex- 
claimed, clicking  his  tongue  reproachfully. 

*  But  it  лvas  a  long  way  .  .  .  more  than  a 
couple  of  hundred  yards.'  Seeing  my  confusion, 
Yarmola  softened. 

'  Well,  it  doesn't  matter.  .  .  .  He  won't  get 
away  from  us.  Go  towards  the  Irenov  road. 
He  '11  come  out  there  presently.' 

I  went  towards  the  Irenov  road,  and  in  a 
couple  of  minutes  I  heard  the  dog  on  a  scent 
again  зотелуЬеге  near  me.  I  was  seized  with 
the  excitement  of  the  hunt  and  began  to  run, 
keeping  my  gun  down,  through  a  thick  shrubbery, 
breaking  the  branches  and  giving  no  heed  to  the 
smart  blows  they  dealt  me.  I  ran  for  a  very 
long  time,  and  was  already  beginning  to  lose  my 
wind,  луЬеп  the  dog  suddenly  stopped  barking. 
I  slowed  my  pace.  I  had  the  idea  that  if  I  went 
straight  on  I  should  be  sure  to  meet  Yarmola  on 
the  Irenov  road.  But  I  soon  realised  that  I 
had  lost  my  way  as  I  ran,  turning  the  bushes 
and  the  stumps  without  a  thought  of  where  I  was 


146  THE  WITCH 

going.  Then  I  began  to  shout  to  Yarraola. 
He  made  no  answer. 

Meanwhile  I  was  going  further.  Little  by 
little  the  forest  grew  thinner.  The  ground  fell 
away  and  became  full  of  little  hillocks.  The 
prints  of  my  feet  on  the  snow  darkened  and  filled 
with  water.  Several  times  I  sank  in  it  to  my 
knees.  I  had  to  jump  from  hillock  to  hillock  ; 
my  feet  sank  in  the  thick  brown  moss  wliich 
covered  them  as  it  were  with  a  soft  carpet. 

Soon  the  shrubbery  came  to  an  end.  In  front 
of  me  there  was  a  large  round  swamp,  thinly 
covered  with  snow  ;  out  of  the  white  shroud  a 
few  little  mounds  emerged.  Among  the  trees 
on  the  other  side  of  the  swamp,  the  white  walls 
of  a  hut  could  be  seen.  '  It 's  the  Irenov  game- 
keeper lives  there,  probably,'  I  thought.  '  I 
must  go  in  and  ask  the  way.' 

But  it  was  not  so  easy  to  reach  the  hut. 
Every  minute  I  sank  in  the  bog.  My  high  boots 
filled  with  water  and  made  a  loud  sucking  noise 
at  every  step,  so  that  I  could  hardly  drag  them 
along. 

Finally  I  managed  to  get  through  the  marsh, 
climbed  on  top  of  a  hillock  from  whence  I  could 
examine  the  hut  thoroughly.  It  was  not  even 
a  hut,  but  one  of  the  chicken-legged  erections  of 
the  fairy  tales.  The  floor  was  not  built  on  to 
the  ground,  but  was  raised  on  piles,  probably 
because  of  the  flood-water  which  covers  all  the 
Irenov  forest  in  the  spring.  But  one  of  the  sides 
had  subsided  with  age,  and  this  gave  the  hut 
a  lame  and  dismal  appearance.     Some  of  the 


THE  WITCH  147 

window  panes  were  missing  ;  their  place  was 
filled  by  some  dirty  rags  that  bellied  out- 
wards. 

I  pressed  the  latch  and  opened  the  door.  The 
room  was  very  dark  and  violet  circles  swam 
before  my  eyes,  which  had  so  long  been  looking 
at  the  snow.  For  a  long  time  I  could  not  see 
whether  there  was  any  one  in  the  hut. 

'  Ah  !  good  people,  is  any  one  at  home  ?  '  I 
asked  aloud. 

Something  moved  near  the  stove.  I  went 
closer  and  saAV  an  old  woman,  sitting  on  the 
floor.  A  big  heap  of  hen  feathers  lay  before  her. 
The  old  woman  was  taking  each  feather  separ- 
ately, tearing  off  the  down  mto  a  basket.  The 
quills  she  threw  on  to  the  floor. 

'  But  it 's  Manuilikha,  the  Irenov  witch.' 
The  thought  flashed  into  my  mind,  as  soon  as  I 
examined  her  a  little  more  attentively.  She 
had  all  the  features  of  a  witch,  according  to  the 
folk-tales  ;  her  lean  hollow  cheeks  descended 
to  a  long,  sharp,  hanging  chin,  which  almost 
touched  her  hook  nose.  Her  sunken,  toothless 
mouth  moved  incessantly  as  though  she  were 
chewing  something.  Her  faded  eyes,  once  blue, 
cold,  round,  protruding,  looked  exactly  like  the 
eyes  of  a  strange,  ill-boding  bird. 

'  How  d'  you  do,  granny  ?  '  I  said  as  affably  as 
I  could.     '  Your  name  's  Manuilikha,  isn't  it  ?  ' 

Something  began  to  bubble  and  rattle  in  the 
old  woman's  chest  by  way  of  reply.  Strange 
sounds  came  out  of  her  toothless,  mumbling 
mouth,    now   like   the   raucous   cawing   of  an 


148  THE  WITCH 

ancient  crow,  then  changing  abruptly  into  a 
hoarse,  broken  falsetto. 

'  Once,  perhaps,  good  people  called  me 
Manuilikha.  .  .  .  But  now  they  call  me  What 's- 
her-name,  and  duck  's  the  name  they  gave  me. 
What  do  you  want  ? '  she  asked  in  a  hostile  tone, 
without  interrupting  her  monotonous  occupation. 

'  You  see,  I  've  lost  my  way,  granny.  Do  you 
happen  to  have  any  milk  ?  ' 

'  There  's  no  milk,'  the  old  woman  cut  me 
short,  angrily.  '  There  's  a  pack  of  people  come 
straggling  about  the  forest  here.  .  .  .  You  can't 
keep  them  all  in  food  and  drink.  .  .  .' 

'  You  're  unldnd  to  your  guests,  granny.' 

*  Quite  true,  my  dear  sir.  I  'm  quite  unkind. 
We  don't  keep  a  store  cupboard  for  you.  If 
you  're  tired,  sit  down  a  while.  Nobody  will 
turn  you  out.  You  know  what  the  proverb 
says  :  '•  You  can  come  and  sit  by  our  gate,  and 
listen  to  the  noise  of  a  feasting  ;  but  we  are 
clever  enough  to  come  to  you  for  a  dinner." 
That 's  how  it  is.' 

These  turns  of  speech  immediately  convinced 
me  that  the  old  woman  really  was  a  stranger  in 
those  parts.  The  people  there  have  no  love 
for  the  expressive  speech,  adorned  with  curious 
words,  which  a  Russian  of  the  north  so  readily 
displays.  Meanwhile  the  old  woman  continued 
her  work  mechanically,  mumbling  under  her 
nose,  quicker  and  more  indistinctly  all  the  while. 
I  could  catch  only  separate  disconnected  words. 
*  There  now,  Granny  Manuilikha.  .  .  .  And  who 
he  is  nobody  knows.  .  .  .  My  years  are  not  a 


THE  WITCH  149 

few.  .  .  .  He  fidgets  his  feet,  chatters  and 
gossips — just  hke  a  magpie.  .  .  .' 

I  listened  for  some  time,  and  the  sudden 
thought  that  I  was  with  a  mad  woman  aroused 
in  me  a  feehng  of  revolting  fear. 

However,  I  had  time  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
ever}i;hing  round  me.  A  huge  blistered  stove 
occupied  the  greater  part  of  the  hut.  There  was 
no  icon  in  the  place  of  honour.  On  the  walls, 
instead  of  the  customary  huntsmen  with  green 
moustaches  and  violet-coloured  dogs,  and  un- 
known generals,  hung  bunches  of  dried  herbs, 
bundles  of  withered  stalks  and  kitchen  utensils. 
I  saw  neither  owl  nor  black  cat ;  instead,  two 
speckled  fat  starlings  glanced  at  me  from  the 
stove  with  a  surprised,  suspicious  air. 

'  Can't  I  even  have  something  to  drink, 
granny  ?  '  I  asked,  raising  my  voice. 

'  It 's  there,  in  the  tub,'  the  old  woman 
nodded. 

The  water  tasted  brackish,  of  the  marsh. 
Thanking  the  old  woman,  though  she  paid  me 
not  the  least  attention,  I  asked  her  how  I  could 
get  back  to  the  road. 

She  suddenly  lifted  up  her  head,  stared  at  me 
with  her  cold  birdlike  eyes,  and  murmured 
hurriedly : 

'  Go,  go  .  .  .  young  man,  go  away.  You  have 
nothing  to  do  here.  There  's  a  time  for  guests 
and  a  time  for  none.  .  .  .  Go,  my  dear  sir,  go.* 

So  nothing  was  left  to  me  but  to  go.  But 
there  flashed  into  my  mind  a  last  resource  to 
soften  the  sternness  of  the  old  woman,  if  only  a 


150  THE  WITCH 

little.  I  took  out  of  my  pocket  a  new  silver 
sixpence  and  held  it  out  to  Manuilikha.  I  was 
not  mistaken  ;  at  the  sight  of  the  money  the  old 
woman  began  to  stir,  her  eyes  widened,  and  she 
stretched  out  her  crooked,  knotted,  trembling 
fingers  for  the  coin. 

'Oh  no,  Granny  Manuilikha,  I  shan't  give  it 
to  you  for  nothing,'  I  teased,  hiding  the  coin. 
'  Tell  me  my  fortime.' 

The  brown  wrinkled  face  of  the  witch  changed 
to  a  discontented  grimace.  She  hesitated  and 
looked  irresolutely  at  my  hand  that  closed  over 
the  coin.     Her  greed  prevailed. 

'  Very  well  then,  come  on,'  she  mumbled, 
getting  up  from  the  floor  with  difficulty.  '  I 
don't  tell  anybody's  fortune  nowadays,  my 
dear.  ...  I  have  forgotten.  ...  I  am  old,  my 
eyes  don't  see.     But  I  '11  do  it  for  you.' 

Holding  on  to  the  wall,  her  bent  body  shaking 
at  every  step,  she  got  to  the  table,  took  a  pack 
of  dirty  cards,  thick  with  age,  and  pushed  them 
over  to  me. 

'  Take  the  cards,  cut  with  your  left  hand.  .  .  . 
Nearest  the  heart.' 

Spitting  on  her  fingers  she  began  to  spread  the 
surround.  As  they  fell  on  the  table  the  cards 
made  a  noise  like  lumps  of  dough  and  arranged 
themselves  in  a  correct  eight-pointed  star.  .  .  . 
Wlien  the  last  card  fell  on  its  back  and  covered 
the  king,  Manuilikha  stretched  out  her  hand  to  me. 

'  Cross  it  with  gold,  my  dear,  and  you  will  be 
happy,  you  луШ  be  rich,'  she  began  to  whine  in 
a  gipsy  beggar's  voice. 


THE  WITCH  151 

I  pushed  the  coin  I  had  ready  into  her  hand. 
Quick  as  a  monkey,  the  old  woman  stowed  it 
away  in  her  jaw. 

'  Something  very  important  is  coming  to  you 
from  afar  off,'  she  began  in  the  usual  voluble 
way.  '  A  meeting  with  the  queen  of  diamonds, 
and  some  pleasant  conversation  in  an  important 
house.  Very  soon  you  will  receive  unexpected 
news  from  the  king  of  clubs.  Certain  troubles 
are  coming,  and  then  a  small  legacy.  You  will 
be  with  a  number  of  people  ;  you  лу111  get  drunk. 
.  .  .  Not  very  drunk,  but  I  can  see  a  spree  is 
there.  Your  life  will  be  a  long  one.  If  you 
don't  die  when  you  are  sixty-seven,  then  .  .  .* 

Suddenly  she  stopped,  and  lifted  up  her  head 
as  though  listening.  I  listened  too.  A  woman's 
voice  sounded  fresh,  clear,  and  strong,  approach- 
ing the  hut  singing.  And  I  recognised  the  words 
of  the  charming  Little  Russian  song  : 

'  Ah,  is  it  the  blossom  or  not  the  bloom 
That  bends  the  little  white  hazel-tree  ? 
Ah,  is  it  a  dream  or  not  a  dream 
That  bows  ray  little  head.  .  .  .' 

'  Well,  now,  be  off,  my  dear.'  The  old 
woman  began  to  bustle  about  anxiously,  push- 
ing me  away  from  the  table.  '  You  must  not 
be  knocking  about  in  other  people's  huts.  Go 
your  way.  .  .  .' 

She  even  seized  me  by  the  sleeve  of  my  jacket 
and  pulled  me  to  the  door.  Her  face  showed 
an  animal  anxiety. 

The  singing  came  to  an  end  abruptly,  quite 


152  THE  WITCH 

close  to  the  hut.  The  iron  latch  rattled  loudly, 
and  in  the  open  door  a  tall  laughing  girl  ap- 
peared. With  both  hands  she  carefully  held 
up  her  striped  apron,  out  of  which  there  peeped 
three  tiny  birds'  heads  with  red  necks  and  black 
shiny  eyes. 

*  Look,  granny,  the  finches  hopped  after 
me  again,'  she  cried,  laughing.  '  Look,  how 
funny  they  are.  And,  just  as  if  on  purpose,  I 
had  no  bread  with  me.' 

But  seeing  me  she  became  silent  and  blushed 
crimson.  Her  thick  black  eyebrows  frowned,  and 
her  eyes  turned  questioningly  to  the  old  woman. 

'  The  gentleman  came  in  here  to  ask  the  way,' 
the  old  woman  explained.  '  Now,  dear  sir,' 
she  turned  to  me,  with  a  resolute  look,  '  you 
have  rested  long  enough.  You  have  drunk  some 
water,  had  a  chat,  and  it 's  time  to  go.  We  are 
not  the  folk  for  you.  .  .  .' 

'  Look  here,  my  dear,'  I  said  to  the  girl. 
'  Please  show  me  the  way  to  the  Irenov  road  ; 
otherwise  I  '11  stick  in  this  marsh  for  ever.' 

It  must  have  been  that  the  kindly  pleading 
tone  in  which  I  spoke  impressed  her.  Carefully 
she  put  her  little  finches  on  the  stove,  side  by 
side  with  the  starlings,  flung  the  overcoat  which 
she  had  already  taken  off  on  to  the  bench,  and 
silently  left  the  hut. 

I  followed  her. 

'  Are  all  your  birds  tame  ?  '  I  asked,  over- 
taking the  girl. 

'  All  tame,'  she  answered  abruptly,  not  even 
glancing  at  me.     '  Now  look,'  she  said,  stopping 


THE  WITCH  153 

by  the  wattle  hedge.  '  Do  you  see  the  little 
footpath  there,  between  the  fir-trees  ?  Can  you 
see  it  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  I  see.' 

'  Go  straight  along  it.  When  you  come  to  the 
oak  stump,  turn  to  your  left.  You  must  go 
straight  on  through  the  forest.  Then  you  will 
come  out  on  the  Irenov  road.' 

All  the  while  she  directed  me,  pointing  with 
her  right  hand,  involuntarily  I  admired  her. 
There  was  nothing  in  her  like  the  local  girls, 
whose  faces  have  such  a  scared,  monotonous  look 
under  the  ugly  head-bands  which  cover  their 
forehead,  mouth,  and  chin.  My  unknown  was  a 
tall  brunette  from  twenty  to  twenty-five  years 
old,  free  and  graceful.  Her  white  shirt  covered 
her  strong  young  bosom  loosely  and  charmingly. 
Once  seen,  the  peculiar  beauty  of  her  face  could 
not  be  forgotten  ;  it  was  even  difficult  to  get 
accustomed  to  it,  to  describe  it.  The  charm  lay 
in  her  large,  shining,  dark  eyes,  to  which  the  thin 
arched  eyebrows  gave  an  indescribable  air, 
shy,  queenly,  and  innocent,  and  in  the  dusky 
pink  of  her  skin,  in  the  self-willed  curl  of 
her  lips.  Her  under-lip  was  fuller,  and  it  was 
pushed  forward  a  little,  giving  her  a  determined 
and  capricious  look. 

'  Are  you  really  not  afraid  to  live  by  your- 
selves in  such  a  lonely  spot  ?  '  I  asked,  stopping 
by  the  hedge. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  indiKerently. 

'  Why  should  we  be  afraid  ?  The  wolves  do 
not  come  near  us.' 


154  THE  WITCH 

'  Wolves  are  not  everything.  Your  hut  might 
be  smothered  under  the  snow.  The  hut  might 
catch  on  fire.  Anything  might  happen.  You 
two  are  there  alone,  no  one  could  come  to  your 
assistance.' 

'  Thank  God  for  that ! '  she  waved  her  hand 
scornfully.  '  If  granny  and  I  were  left  alone 
entirely,  it  would  be  much  better,  but ' 

'  What  ?  ' 

'  You  will  get  old,  if  you  want  to  know  so 
much,'  she  cut  me  short.  '  And  who  are  you  ?  ' 
she  asked  anxiously. 

I  realised  that  probably  the  old  woman  and 
the  girl  were  afraid  of  persecution  from  the 
authorities,  and  I  hastened  to  reassure  her. 

'  Oh,  don't  be  alarmed.  I  'm  not  the  village 
policeman,  or  the  clerk,  or  the  exciseman.  .  .  . 
I  'm  not  an  official  at  all.' 

'  Is  that  really  true  ?  ' 

*  On  my  word  of  honour.  Believe  me,  I  am 
the  most  private  person.  I  've  simply  come  to 
stay  here  a  few  months,  and  then  I  'm  going 
away.  If  you  like,  I  won't  tell  a  soul  that 
I  've  been  here  and  seen  you.  Do  you  believe 
me?' 

The  girl's  face  brightened  a  little. 

'  Well,  then,  if  you  're  not  lying,  you  're 
telhng  the  truth.  But  tell  me :  had  you 
heard  about  us,  or  did  you  come  across  us  by 
accident  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  quite  know  how  to  explain  it  myself. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I  had  heard,  and  I  even  wanted  to 
call  on  you  some  time.     But  it  was  an  accident 


THE  WITCH  155 

that  I  came  to-day,  I  lost  my  way.  Now  tell 
me  :  why  are  you  afraid  of  people  ?  What  harm 
do  they  do  you  ?  ' 

She  glanced  at  me  with  suspicion.  But  my 
conscience  was  clear,  and  I  endured  her  scrutiny 
without  a  tremor.  Then  she  began  to  speak, 
with  increasing  agitation. 

*  They  do  bad  things.  .  .  .  Ordinary  people 
don't  matter,  but  the  officials.  .  .  .  The  village 
policeman  comes — he  must  be  bribed.  The  in- 
spector— pay  again.  And  before  he  takes  the 
bribe  he  insults  my  grandmother  ;  says  she  's  a 
witch,  a  hag,  a  convict.  .  .  .  But  what 's  the 
good  of  talking  ?  .  .  .' 

'  But  don't  they  touch  you  ? '  The  im- 
prudent question  escaped  my  lips. 

She  drew  up  her  head  Avith  proud  self-con- 
fidence, and  angry  triumph  flashed  in  her 
half-closed  eyes. 

'  They  don't  touch  me.  .  .  .  Once  a  surveyor 
came  near  to  me.  .  .  .  He  wanted  a  kiss.  ...  I 
don't  think  he  лу111  have  forgotten  yet  how  I 
kissed  him.' 

So  much  harsh  independence  sounded  in  these 
proud,  derisive  words,  that  I  involuntarily 
thought : 

'  You  haven't  been  bred  in  the  Polyessie  forest 
for  nothing.  You  're  really  a  dangerous  person 
to  joke  with.  .  .  .' 

'  Do  we  touch  anybody  ?  '  she  continued  as 
her  confidence  in  me  grew.  '  We  do  not  want 
people.  Once  a  year  I  go  to  the  little  town  to 
buy  soap  and  salt  .  .  .  and  some  tea  for  granny. 


156  THE  WITCH 

She  loves  tea.  Otherwise,  I  could  do  without 
them  for  ever.' 

'  Well,  I  see  you  and  your  granny  are  not  fond 
of  people.  .  .  .  But  may  I  come  to  see  you 
sometimes  for  a  little  while  ?  ' 

She  laughed.  How  strange  and  unexpected 
was  the  change  in  her  pretty  face  !  There  was 
no  trace  of  her  former  sternness  in  it.  It  had  in 
an  instant  become  bright,  shy,  and  childish. 

'  Whatever  will  you  do  with  us  ?  Granny  and 
I  are  dull.  .  .  .  Wliy,  come,  if  you  like,  and  if 
you  are  really  a  good  man.  But  ...  if  you 
do  happen  to  come,  it  would  be  better  if  you 
came  without  a  gun.  .  .  .' 

'  You  're  afraid  ?  ' 

'  Why  should  I  be  afraid  ?  I  'm  afraid  of 
nothing.'  Again  I  could  catch  in  her  voice  her 
confidence  in  her  strength.  '  But  I  don't  like 
it.  Why  do  you  kill  birds,  or  hares  even  ? 
They  do  nobody  any  harm,  and  they  want  to 
live  as  much  as  you  or  I.  I  love  them  ;  they 
are  so  tiny,  and  such  little  stupids.  .  .  .  Well, 
good-bye.'  She  began  to  hurry.  '  I  don't  know 
your  name.  .  .  .  I  'm  afraid  granny  will  be  cross 
with  me.' 

With  easy  swiftness  she  ran  to  the  hut.  She 
bent  her  head,  and  with  her  hands  caught  up 
her  hair,  blown  loose  in  the  wind. 

'  Wait,  wait  a  moment,'  I  called.  '  What  is 
your  name  ?     Let  us  be  properly  introduced.' 

'  My  name  's  Alyona.  .  .  .  Hereabouts  they 
call  me  Olyessia.' 

I  shouldered  my  gun  and  went  the  way  I  had 


THE  WITCH  157 

been  shown.  I  climbed  a  small  mound  from 
whence  a  narrow,  hardly  visible,  Ibrest  path 
began,  and  looked  back.  Olyessia's  red  skirt, 
fluttering  in  the  wind,  could  still  be  seen  on  the 
steps  of  the  hut,  a  spot  of  bright  colour  on  the 
smooth  and  blinding  background  of  the  snow. 

An  hour  later  Yarmola  returned.  As  usual 
he  avoided  idle  conversation,  and  asked  me  not 
a  word  of  how  and  where  I  lost  my  way.  He 
just  said,  casually : 

'  There.  .  .  .  I  've  left  a  hare  in  the  kitchen. 
.  .  .  Shall  we  roast  it,  or  do  you  want  to  send 
it  to  any  one  ?  ' 

'  But  you  don't  know  where  I  've  been  to- 
day, Yarmola  ?  '  I  said,  anticipating  his  surprise. 

'  How  do  you  mean,  I  don't  know  ? '  he 
muttered  gruffly.  '  You  went  to  the  witch's  for 
sure  .   .   .' 

'  How  did  you  find  that  out  ?  ' 

'  How  could  I  help  it  ?  I  heard  no  answer 
from  you,  so  I  went  back  on  your  tracks.  .  .  . 
Sir  ! '  he  added  in  reproachful  vexation,  '  you 
shouldn't  do  such  thinos.  ...  It 's  a  sin  !  .  .  .' 


158  THE  WITCH 


IV 

That  year  spring  came  early.  It  was  violent 
and,  as  always  in  Polyessie,  unexpected.  Brown, 
shining,  turbulent  streams  began  to  run  down  the 
village  streets,  foaming  angrily  round  the  stones, 
whirling  splinters  and  feathers  along  with  it. 
In  the  huge  pools  of  water  was  reflected  the 
azure  sky,  with  the  round,  spinning  white  clouds 
that  swam  in  it.  Heavy  drops  pattered  noisily 
from  the  eaves.  Flights  of  sparrows  covered  the 
roadside  willows,  and  chattered  with  such  noisy 
excitement  that  nothing  could  be  heard  above 
the  clamour.  Everywhere  was  felt  the  joyous, 
quick  alarm  of  life. 

The  snow  disappeared.  Dirty  yellow  patches 
remained  here  and  there  in  the  hollows  and  the 
shady  thickets.  From  beneath  it  peeped  the 
warm  wet  soil,  full  of  new  sap  after  its  winter 
sleep,  full  of  thirst  for  a  new  maternity.  Over 
the  black  fields  swung  a  light  vapour,  filling  the 
air  with  the  scent  of  the  thawed  earth,  Avith  the 
fresh,  penetrating,  mighty  smell  of  the  spring, 
which  one  can  distinguish  even  in  the  town  from 
a  hundred  other  smells.  Together  with  this 
scent  I  felt  that  the  sweet  and  tender  sadness  of 
spring  poured  into  my  soul,  exuberant  with 
restless  expectations  and  vague  presentiments, 
that  romantic  sadness  which  makes  all  women 


THE  WITCH  159 

beautiful  in  one's  eyes,  and  is  always  tinged  with 
indefinite  regrets  for  the  springs  of  the  past. 
The  nights  grew  warmer.  In  their  thick  moist 
darkness  pulsed  the  unseen  and  urgent  creation 
of  Nature. 

In  those  spring  days  the  image  of  Olyessia 
never  left  me.  Alone,  I  loved  to  lie  down  and 
close  my  eyes  that  I  might  better  concentrate 
upon  her.  Continually  in  my  imagination  I 
summoned  her  up,  now  stern,  now  cunning,  now 
with  a  tender  smile  resplendent  in  her  face,  her 
young  body  nurtured  on  the  richness  of  the  old 
forest  to  be  as  harmonious  and  mighty  as  a 
young  fir-tree,  her  fresh  voice  with  its  sudden  low 
velvet}^  notes.  .  .  .  '  In  all  her  movements,  and 
her  words,'  I  thought,  '  there  is  a  nobility,  some 
native  grace  of  modulation.'  I  was  drawn  to 
Olyessia  also  by  the  halo  of  mystery  which  sur- 
rounded her,  her  superstitious  reputation  as  a 
witch,  her  life  in  the  forest  thicket  amid  the 
marsh,  and  above  all  her  proud  confidence  in  her 
own  powers,  that  had  shown  through  the  few 
words  she  said  to  me. 

Surely  there  is  nothing  strange  in  it  that,  so 
soon  as  the  forest  paths  were  dry,  I  set  out  for 
the  hut  with  the  chicken  legs.  In  case  it  should 
be  necessary  to  placate  the  querulous  old  луотап 
I  bore  with  me  a  half-pound  of  tea  and  a  few 
handfuls  of  sugar. 

I  found  them  both  at  home.  The  old  woman 
was  moving  about  by  the  bright  burning  stove, 
and  Olyessia  was  sitting  on  a  very  tall  bench 
spinning  flax.     I  banged  the  door  as  I  entered, 


160  THE  WITCH 

and  she  turned  round.  The  thread  snapped  and 
the  spindle  rolled  on  to  the  floor. 

For  some  time  the  old  woman  stared  at  me 
with  angry  intentness,  frowning,  and  screening 
her  face  from  the  heat  of  the  stove  with  her  hand. 

'  How  do  you  do,  granny  ?  '  I  said  in  a  loud, 
hearty  voice.  '  It  must  be  you  don't  recognise 
me.  You  remember  I  came  in  here  last  month 
to  ask  my  way  ?     You  told  me  my  fortune  too.' 

'  I  don't  remember  anything,  sir,'  the  old 
woman  began  to  mumble,  shaking  her  head  with 
annoyance.  '  I  remember  nothing.  I  can't 
make  out  at  all  what  you  've  forgotten  here. 
We  are  no  company  for  you.  We  're  simple, 
plain  folk.  .  .  .  There  's  nothing  for  you  here. 
The  forest  is  wide,  there 's  room  enough  to 
wander.  .  .  .' 

Taken  aback  by  the  hostile  reception,  and 
utterly  nonplussed,  I  found  myself  in  the  foolish 
situation  of  not  knowing  what  to  do  :  Avhether 
to  turn  the  rudeness  to  a  joke,  or  to  take  offence, 
or  finally  to  turn  and  go  back  without  a  word. 
Involuntarily  I  turned  to  Olyessia  with  a  look  of 
helplessness.  She  gave  me  the  faintest  trace  of 
a  smile  of  derision,  that  was  not  wholly  malicious, 
rose  from  the  spinning-wheel  and  went  to  the 
old  woman. 

'  Don't  be  afraid,  granny,'  she  said  reassur- 
ingly. '  He  's  not  a  bad  man.  He  won't  do  us 
any  harm.  Please  sit  down,'  she  added,  pointing 
me  to  a  bench  in  the  corner  of  honour,  and 
paying  no  more  attention  to  the  old  woman's 
grumbling. 


THE  WITCH  161 

Encouraged  by  her  attention,  I  suddenly 
decided  to  adopt  the  most  decisive  measures. 

'  But  you  do  get  angry,  granny.  .  .  .  No 
sooner  does  a  guest  appear  in  your  doorway 
than  you  begin  to  abuse  him.  And  I  had 
brought  you  a  present,'  I  said,  taking  the  parcels 
out  of  my  bag. 

The  old  woman  threw  a  swift  glance  at  the 
parcels  ;  but  instantly  turned  her  back  upon 
me. 

Immediately,  I  handed  her  the  tea  and  sugar. 
This  soothed  the  old  woman  somewhat,  for 
though  she  continued  to  grumble,  it  was  no 
longer  in  the  old  implacable  tone.  Olyessia  sat 
down  to  her  yarn  again,  and  I  placed  myself 
near  to  her,  on  a  small,  low,  rickety  stool.  With 
her  left  hand  Olyessia  was  swiftly  twisting  a 
white  thread  of  flax,  silky  soft,  and  in  her  right 
the  spindle  whirled  with  an  easy  humming. 
Now  she  would  let  it  fall  almost  to  the  floor  ; 
then  she  would  catch  it  neatly,  and  with  a  quick 
movement  of  her  fingers  send  it  spinning  round 
again.  In  her  hands  this  work  (which  at  the 
first  glance  appears  so  simple,  but  in  truth  de- 
mands the  habit  and  dexterity  of  centuries), 
went  like  lightning.  I  could  not  help  turning 
my  eyes  to  those  hands.  They  were  coarsened 
and  blackened  by  the  work,  but  they  were  small 
and  of  shape  so  beautiful  that  many  a  princess 
would  have  envied  them. 

'  You  never  told  me  that  granny  had  told  your 
fortune,'  said  Olyessia,  and,  seeing  that  I  gave 
a  cautious  glance  behind  me,  she  added  :   '  It 's 

L 


162  THE  WITCH 

quite  all  right,  she  's  rather  deaf.  She  won't 
hear.     It 's  only  my  voice  she  understands  well.' 

'  Yes,  she  did.     Why  ?  ' 

'  I  just  asked  .  .  .  nothing  more.  .  .  .  And 
do  you  believe  in  it  ? '  She  gave  a  quick,  stealthy 
glance. 

'  Believe  what  ?  The  fortune  your  granny 
told  me,  or  generally  ?  ' 

'  I  mean  generally.' 

'  I  don't  quite  know.  It  would  be  truer  to 
say,  I  don't  believe  in  it,  but  still  who  knows  ? 
They  say  there  are  cases.  .  .  .  They  write  about 
it  in  clever  books  even.  But  I  don't  believe 
what  your  granny  told  me  at  all.  Any  village 
woman  could  tell  me  as  much.' 

Olyessia  smiled. 

'  Yes,  nowadays  she  tells  fortunes  badly,  it 's 
true.  She  's  old,  and  besides  she  's  very  much 
afraid.     But  what  did  the  cards  say  ?  ' 

'  Nothing  interesting.  I  can't  even  remember 
it  now.  The  usual  kind  of  thing  :  a  distant 
journey,  something  with  clubs.  ...  I  've  quite 
forgotten.' 

'  Yes,  she  's  a  bad  fortune-teller  now.  She  's 
grown  so  old  that  she  has  forgotten  a  great 
many  words.  .  .  .  How  could  she  ?  And  she  's 
scared  as  well.  It 's  only  the  sight  of  money 
makes  her  consent  to  tell.' 

'  What 's  she  scared  of  ?  ' 

'  The  authorities,  of  course.  .  .  .  The  village 
policeman  comes,  and  threatens  her  every  time. 
"  I  can  have  you  put  away  at  any  minute,"  he 
says.     "  You  know  what  people  like  you  get  for 


THE  WITCH  163 

witchcraft  ?  Penal  servitude  for  life  on  Hawk 
Island."     Tell  me  what  you  think.     Is  it  true  ?  ' 

'  It 's  not  altogether  a  lie.  There  is  some 
punishment  for  doing  it,  but  not  so  bad  as  all 
that.  .  .  .  And  you,  Olyessia,  can  you  tell 
fortunes  ?  ' 

It  was  as  though  she  were  perplexed,  but  only 
for  a  second. 

'  I  can.  .  .  .  But  not  for  money,'  she  added 
hastily. 

'  You  might  put  out  the  cards  for  me  ?  ' 

'  No,'  she  answered  with  quiet  resolution, 
shaking  her  head. 

'  Why  won't  you  ?  Very  well,  some  other 
time.  .  .  .  Somehow  I  believe  you  will  tell  me 
the  truth.' 

'  No.     I  will  not.     I  won't  do  it  for  anything.' 

'  Oh,  that 's  not  right,  Olyessia.  For  first 
acquaintance'  sake  you  can't  refuse.  .  .  .  Why 
don't  you  want  to  ?  ' 

'  Because  I  've  put  out  the  cards  for  you 
already.     It 's  wrong  to  do  it  twice.' 

'  Wrong  ?     But  why  ?     I  don't  understand  it.' 

'  No,  no,  it 's  wrong,  wrong,'  she  began  to 
whisper  with  superstitious  dread.  '  It 's  for- 
bidden to  ask  twice  of  Fate.  It 's  not  right. 
Fate  will  discover,  overhear.  .  .  .  She  does  not 
like  to  be  asked.  That 's  why  all  fortune-tellers 
are  unhappy.' 

I  wanted  to  make  a  jesting  reply  to  Olyessia  ; 
but  I  could  not.  There  was  too  much  sincere 
conviction  in  her  words  ;  and  when  she  turned 
her  head  to  the  door  in  a  strange  fear  as  she 


164  THE  WITCH 

uttered  the  word  Fate,  in  spite  of  myself  I  turned 
with  her. 

'  Well,  if  you  won't  want  to  tell  me  my  fortune 
now,  tell  me  what  the  cards  have  told  you 
already,'  I  begged. 

Olyessia  suddenly  gave  a  turn  to  the  spinning- 
wheel,  and  with  her  hand  touched  mine. 

'  No !  .  .  .  better  not,'  she  said.  A  childlike, 
imploring  look  came  into  her  eyes.  '  Please, 
don't  ask  me.  .  .  .  There  was  nothing  good  in 
it.  .  .  .  Better  not  ask.' 

But  I  insisted.  I  could  not  understand 
whether  her  refusal  and  her  dark  allusions  to 
Fate  were  the  deliberate  trick  of  a  fortune-teller, 
or  whether  she  herself  really  believed  what  she 
said.  But  I  became  rather  imeasy  ;  what  was 
almost  a  dread  took  hold  of  me. 

'  Well,  I  '11  tell  you,  perhaps,'  Olyessia  finally 
consented.  '  But  listen ;  a  bargain 's  better 
than  money  ;  don't  be  angry  if  you  don't  like 
what  I  say.  The  cards  said  that  though  you 
are  a  good  man,  you  are  only  a  weak  one.  .  .  . 
Your  goodness  is  not  sound,  nor  quite  sincere. 
You  are  not  master  of  your  Avord.  You  love 
to  have  the  whip-hand  of  people,  and  yet, 
though  you  yourself  do  not  want  to,  you  submit 

to  them.     You  are  fond  of  wine  and Well, 

if  I  've  got  to  say,  I  '11  say  everything  right  to 
the  last.  .  .  .  You  are  very  fond  of  women,  and 
because  of  that  you  will  have  much  evil  in  your 
life.  .  .  .  You  do  not  value  money  and  you 
cannot  save.  You  will  never  be  rich.  .  .  .  Shall 
I  go  on  ?  ' 


THE  WITCH  165 

'  Go  on,  go  on,  say  everything  you  know  ! ' 

'  The  cards  said  too  that  your  Hfe  will  not 
be  a  happy  one.  You  will  never  love  with  your 
heart,  because  your  heart  is  cold  and  dull,  and 
you  will  cause  great  sorrow  to  those  who  love 
you.  You  will  never  marry ;  you  will  die  a 
bachelor.  There  will  be  no  great  joys  in  your 
life,  but  much  weariness  and  depression.  .  .  . 
There  will  come  a  time  when  you  will  want  to 
put  an  end  to  your  life.  .  .  .  That  will  come  to 
you,  but  you  will  not  dare,  you  will  go  on  endur- 
ing. You  will  suffer  great  poverty,  but  towards 
the  end  your  fate  will  be  changed  through  the 
death  of  some  one  near  you,  quite  unexpected. 
But  all  this  will  be  in  years  to  come ;  but  this 
year  ...  I  don't  know  exactly  лvhen  .  .  . 
the  cards  say  very  soon  .  .  .  maybe  this  very 
month ' 

'  What  will  happen  this  year  ?  '  I  asked  when 
she  stopped  again. 

'  I  'm  afraid  to  tell  you  any  more.  ...  A 
great  love  will  come  to  you  through  the  queen 
of  clubs.  Only  I  can't  see  whether  she  is 
married  or  a  girl,  but  I  know  that  she  has  dark 
hair.  .  .  .' 

Involuntarily  I  gave  a  swift  glance  to 
Olyessia's  head. 

'  Why  are  you  looking  at  me  ?  '  she  blushed 
suddenly,  feeling  my  glance,  with  the  sensitive- 
ness peculiar  to  some  women.  '  Well,  yes, 
something  like  mine,'  she  continued,  mechani- 
cally arranging  her  hair,  and  blushing  still 
more. 


166  THE  WITCH 

'  So  you  say,  a  great  love  from  clubs  ?  '  I 
laughed. 

^  ;,'  Don't  laugh.  It 's  no  use  laughing,'  Olyessia 
said  seriously,  almost  sternly.  'I'm  only  telling 
you  the  truth.' 

'  Well,  I  won't  laugh  any  more,  I  promise. 
What  is  there  more  ?  ' 

'  More.  .  .  .  Oh  !  Evil  will  come  upon  the 
queen  of  clubs,  worse  than  death.  She  will 
suffer  a  great  disgrace  through  you,  one  that  she 
will  never  be  able  to  forget ;  she  will  have  an 
everlasting  sorrow.  ...  In  her  planet  no  harm 
comes  to  you.' 

'  Tell  me,  Olyessia.  Couldn't  the  cards  de- 
ceive you  ?  Why  should  I  do  so  many  un- 
pleasant things  to  the  queen  of  clubs  ?  I  am  a 
quiet  unassuming  fellow,  yet  you  've  said  so 
many  awful  things  about  me.' 

'  I  don't  know  that.  .  .  .  The  cards  showed 
that  it 's  not  you  will  do  it — I  mean,  not  on 
purpose — but  all  this  misfortune  will  come 
through  you.  .  .  .  You  '11  remember  my  words, 
when  they  come  true.' 

'  The  cards  told  you  all  this,  Olyessia  ?  ' 

She  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  then  as 
though  evasive  and  reluctant : 

'  The  cards  as  well.  .  .  .  But  even  \vithout 
them  I  learn  a  great  deal,  just  by  the  face  alone. 
If,  for  instance,  some  one  is  going  to  die  soon  by 
an  ugly  death,  I  can  read  it  immediately  in  his 
face.     I  need  not  speak  to  him,  even.' 

'  What  do  you  see  in  his  face  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know  myself.     I  suddenly  feel  afraid. 


THE  WITCH  167 

as  though  he  were  a  dead  man  standing  before 
me.  Just  ask  granny,  she  will  tell  you  that  it 's 
the  truth  I  'm  saying.  The  year  before  last, 
Trophim  the  miller  hung  himself  in  his  mill. 
Only  two  days  before  I  saw  him  and  said  to 
granny  :  "  Just  look,  granny,  Trophim  will  die 
an  ugly  death  soon."  And  so  it  was.  Again, 
last  Christmas  Yashka  the  horse  thief  came  to  us 
and  asked  granny  to  tell  his  fortune.  Granny 
put  out  the  cards  for  him  and  began.  He  asked, 
joking  :  '•  Tell  me  what  sort  of  death  will  I 
have  ? "  and  he  laughed.  The  moment  I 
glanced  at  him,  I  could  not  move.  I  saw 
Yashka  sitting  there,  but  his  face  was  dead, 
green.  .  .  .  His  eyes  were  shut,  his  lips  black. 
...  A  week  afterwards  we  heard  that  the 
peasants  had  caught  Yashka  just  as  he  was 
trying  to  take  some  horses  off.  .  .  .  They  beat 
him  all  night  long.  .  .  .  They  are  bad  people 
here,  merciless.  .  .  ,  They  drove  nails  into  his 
heels,  smashed  his  ribs  with  stakes,  and  he  gave 
up  the  ghost  about  dawn.' 

'  Why  didn't  you  tell  him  that  misfortune 
was  waiting  for  him  ?  ' 

'  Why  should  I  tell  ?  '  Olyessia  repHed.  '  Can 
a  man  escape  what  Fate  has  doomed  ?  It  is 
useless  for  a  man  to  be  anxious  the  last  days  of 
his  life.  .  .  .  And  I  loathe  myself  for  seeing 
these  things.  I  am  disgusted  with  my  own  self. 
.  .  .  But  what  can  I  do  ?  It  is  mine  by  Fate. 
When  granny  was  younger  she  could  see  Death, 
too  ;  so  could  my  mother  and  granny's  mother — 
we  are  not  responsible.     It  is  in  our  blood.  .  .  .' 


168  THE  WITCH 

She  left  off  her  spinning,  bent  her  head  and 
quietly  plaeed  her  hands  upon  her  knees.  In 
her  arrested,  immobile  eyes  and  her  wide  pupils 
was  reflected  some  dark  terror,  an  involuntary 
submission  to  mysterious  powers  and  super- 
natural knowledge  which  cast  a  shadow  upon 
her  soul. 


THE  WITCH  169 


Then  the  old  woman  spread  a  clean  cloth  with 
embroidered  ends  on  the  table,  and  placed  a 
steaming  pot  upon  it. 

'  Come  to  supper,  Olyessia,'  she  called  to  her 
granddaughter,  and  after  a  moment's  hesitation 
added,  turning  to  me :  '  Perhaps  you  will  eat 
with  us  too,  sir  ?  Our  food  is  very  plain  ;  we 
have  no  soup,  only  plain  groats.  .  .  .' 

I  cannot  say  there  was  any  particular  in- 
sistence in  her  invitation,  and  I  was  already 
minded  to  refuse  had  not  Olyessia  in  her  turn 
invited  me  with  such  simplicity  and  a  smile  so 
kind,  that  in  spite  of  myself  I  agreed.  She  her- 
self poured  me  out  a  plateful  of  groats,  a  porridge 
of  buckwheat  and  fat,  onion,  potato  and  chicken, 
an  amazingly  tasty  and  nourishing  dish.  Neither 
grandmother  nor  granddaughter  crossed  them- 
selves as  they  sat  down  to  table.  During  supper 
I  continually  watched  both  women,  because  up 
till  now  I  have  retained  a  deep  conviction  that 
a  person  is  nowhere  revealed  so  clearly  as  when 
he  eats.  The  old  woman  swallowed  the  porridge 
with  hasty  greed,  chewing  aloud  and  pushing 
large  pieces  of  bread  into  her  mouth,  so  that  big 
lumps  rose  and  moved  beneath  her  flabby 
cheeks.  In  Olyessia's  manner  of  eating  even 
there  was  a  native  grace. 


170  THE  WITCH 

An  hour  later,  after  supper,  I  took  my  leave 
of  my  hostesses  of  the  chicken-legged  hut. 

'  I  will  walk  with  you  a  little  way,  if  you  like,' 
Olyessia  offered. 

'  What 's  this  walking  out  you  're  after  ?  '  the 
old  woman  mumbled  angrily.  '  You  can't  stay 
in  your  place,  you  gad-fly.  .  .  .' 

But  Olyessia  had  already  put  a  red  cashmere 
shawl  on.  Suddenly  she  ran  up  to  her  grand- 
mother, embraced  her  and  gave  her  a  loud  kiss. 

'  Dear  little  precious  granny.  .  .  .  It 's  only  a 
moment.     I  '11  be  back  in  a  second.' 

'  Very  well,  then,  madcap.'  The  old  woman 
feebly  wrenched  herself  away.  '  Don't  mis- 
understand her,  sir  ;   she  's  very  stupid.' 

Passing  a  narrow  path  we  came  out  into  the 
forest  road,  black  with  mud,  all  churned  with 
hoof  marks  and  rutted  with  wheel  tracks,  full  of 
water,  in  which  the  fire  of  the  evening  star  was 
reflected.  We  walked  at  the  side  of  the  road, 
covered  everywhere  with  the  brown  leaves  of 
last  year,  not  yet  dry  after  the  snow.  Here 
and  there  through  the  dead  yellow  big  wakening 
blue-bells — the  earliest  flowers  in  Polyessie — 
lifted  their  lilac  heads. 

'  Listen,  Olyessia,'  I  began ;  '  I  very  much 
want  to  ask  you  something,  but  I  am  afraid  you 
will  be  cross.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  is  it  true  what  they 
say  about  your  grandmother  ?  .  .  .  How  shall 
I  express  it  ?  ' 

'  She  's  a  witch  ?  '  Olyessia  quietly  helped  me 
out. 

'  No.  .  .  .  Not  a  witch,'  I  caught  her  up. 


THE  WITCH  171 

*  Well,  yes,  a  лу11с11  if  you  like.  .  .  .  Certainly, 
people  say  such  things.  Why  shouldn't  one 
know  certain  herbs,  remedies,  and  charms  ?  .  .  . 
But  if  you  find  it  unpleasant,  you  need  not 
answer.' 

'  But  why  not  ? '  she  answered  simply. 
'  Where  's  the  unpleasantness  ?  Yes,  it 's  true, 
she  's  a  witch.  But  now  she  's  grown  old  and 
can  no  longer  do  what  she  did  before.' 

'  And  what  did  she  do  before  ?  '    I  was  curious. 

'  All  kinds  of  things.  She  could  cure  illness, 
heal  toothache,  put  a  spell  on  a  mine,  pray  over 
any  one  who  was  bitten  by  a  mad  dog  or  a  snake, 
she  could  find  out  treasure  trove.  ...  It  is 
impossible  to  tell  one  everything.' 

'  You  know,  Olyessia,  you  must  forgive  me, 
but  I  don't  believe  it  all.  Be  frank  with  me. 
I  shan't  tell  anybody  ;  but  surely  this  is  all  a 
pretence  in  order  to  mystify  people  ?  ' 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  indifferently. 

'  Think  what  you  like.  Of  course,  it 's  easy 
to  mystify  a  woman  from  the  village,  but  I 
wouldn't  deceive  you.' 

'  You  really  believe  in  witchcraft,  then  ?  ' 

'  How  could  I  disbelieve  ?  Charms  are  in 
our  destiny.     I  can  do  a  great  deal  myself.' 

'  Olyessia,  darling,  ...  if  you  only  knew  how 
interested  I  was.  .  .  .  Won't  you  really  show 
me  anything  ?  ' 

'  I  '11  show  you,  if  you  like.'  Olyessia  readily 
consented.     '  Would  you  like  me  to  do  it  now  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  at  once,  if  possible.' 

'  You  won't  be  afraid  ?  ' 


172  THE  WITCH 

'  What  next  ?  I  might  be  afraid  at  night 
perhaps,  but  it  is  still  daylight.' 

'  Very  Avell.     Give  me  your  hand.' 

I  obeyed.  Olyessia  quickly  turned  up  the 
sleeve  of  my  overcoat  and  unfastened  the  button 
of  my  cuff.  Then  she  took  a  small  Finnish  knife 
about  three  inches  long  out  of  her  pocket,  and 
removed  it  from  its  leather  case. 

'  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  '  I  asked,  for  a 
mean  fear  had  awakened  in  me. 

'  You  will  see  immediately.  .  .  .  But  you  said 
you  wouldn't  be  afraid.' 

Suddenly  her  hand  made  a  slight  movement, 
hardly  perceptible.  I  felt  the  prick  of  the  sharp 
blade  in  the  soft  part  of  my  arm  a  little  higher 
than  the  pulse.  Instantly  blood  showed  along 
the  whole  width  of  the  cut,  flowed  over  my  hand, 
and  began  to  drop  quickly  on  to  the  earth.  I 
could  hardly  restrain  a  cry,  and  I  believe  I  grew 
pale. 

'  Don't  be  afraid.  You  won't  die,'  Olyessia 
smiled. 

She  seized  my  arm  above  the  cut,  bent  her 
face  down  upon  it,  and  began  to  whisper  some- 
thing quickly,  covering  my  skin  with  her  steady 
breathing.  When  she  stood  up  again  unclasp- 
ing her  fingers,  on  the  wounded  place  only  a  red 
graze  remained. 

'  Well,  have  you  had  enough  ?  '  she  asked 
with  a  sly  smile,  putting  her  little  knife  away. 
'  Would  you  like  some  more  ?  ' 

'  Certainly,  I  would.  Only  if  possible  not 
quite  so  terrible  and  without  bloodshed,  please.' 


THE  WITCH  173 

'  What  shall  I  show  you  ?  '  she  mused. 
'  Well,  this  will  do.  Walk  along  the  road  in 
front  of  me.     But  don't  look  back.' 

'  This  won't  be  terrible  ?  '  I  asked,  trying 
to  conceal  my  timid  apprehensions  of  an 
unpleasant  surprise  with  a  careless  smile. 

'  No,  no.  .  .  .  Quite  trifling.  .  .  .  Go  on.* 

I  went  ahead,  very  much  intrigued  by  the  ex- 
periment, feeling  Olyessia's  steady  glance  behind 
my  back.  But  after  about  a  dozen  steps  I 
suddenly  stumbled  on  a  perfectly  even  piece  of 
ground  and  fell  flat. 

'  Go  on,  go  on  ! '  cried  Olyessia.  '  Don't  look 
back  !  It 's  nothing  at  all.  It  will  be  all  right 
before  your  wedding  day.  .  .  .  Keep  a  better 
grip  on  the  ground  next  time,  when  you  're  going 
to  fall.' 

I  went  on.  Another  ten  steps,  and  a  second 
time  I  fell  my  full  length. 

Olyessia  began  to  laugh  aloud  and  to  clap  her 
hands. 

'  Well,  are  you  satisfied  now  ?  '  she  cried,  her 
white  teeth  gleaming.  '  Do  you  believe  it  now  ? 
It 's  nothing,  nothing.  .  .  .  You  flew  down 
instead  of  up.' 

'  How  did  you  manage  that  ?  '  I  asked  in 
surprise,  shaking  the  little  clinging  twigs  and 
blades  of  grass  from  my  clothes.  'Is  it  a 
secret  ?  ' 

'  Not  at  all.  I  '11  tell  you  with  pleasure. 
Only  I  'm  afraid  that  perhaps  you  won't  under- 
stand. ...  I  shan't  be  able  to  explain.  .  .  .' 

Indeed,  I  did  not  understand  her  altogether. 


174  THE  WITCH 

But,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out,  this  odd  trick 
consists  in  her  following  my  footsteps,  step  by 
step,  in  time  with  me.  She  looks  at  me  steadily, 
trying  to  imitate  my  every  movement  down  to 
the  least ;  as  it  were,  she  identifies  herself  with 
me.  After  a  few  steps  she  begins  to  imagine 
a  rope  drawn  across  the  road  a  certain  distance 
in  front  of  me — a  yard  from  the  ground.  The 
moment  my  foot  is  touching  this  imaginary  rope, 
Olyessia  suddenly  pretends  to  fall,  and  then,  as 
she  says,  the  strongest  man  must  infallibly  fall. 
...  I  remembered  Olyessia' s  confused  explana- 
tion long  afterwards  when  I  read  Charcot's 
report  on  the  experiments  which  he  made  on  two 
women  patients  in  the  Salpetriere,  who  were  pro- 
fessional witches  suffering  from  hysteria.  I  was 
greatly  surprised  to  discover  that  French  witches 
who  came  from  the  common  people  employed 
exactly  the  same  science  in  the  same  cases  as  the 
beautiful  witch  of  Polyessie. 

'  Oh,  I  can  do  a  great  many  things  besides/ 
Olyessia  boldly  declared.  '  For  instance,  I  can 
put  a  fear  into  you.  .  .  .' 

'  What  does  that  mean  ?  ' 

'  I  '11  act  so  that  you  feel  a  great  dread.  Sup- 
pose you  are  sitting  in  your  room  in  the  evening. 
Suddenly  for  no  reason  at  all  such  a  fear  will 
take  hold  of  you  that  you  will  begin  to  tremble 
and  won't  dare  to  turn  round.  But  for  this  I 
must  know  where  you  live  and  see  your  room 
beforehand.' 

'  Well,  that 's  quite  a  simple  affair.'  I  was 
sceptical.     '  You  only  have  to  come  close  to  the 


THE  WITCH  175 

window,  tap  on  it,  call  out  something  or 
other.  .  .  .' 

'  Oh  no !  ...  I  shall  be  in  the  forest  at  the 
time.  I  won't  go  out  of  the  hut.  .  .  .  But  I 
will  sit  down  and  think  all  the  while  :  I  '11  think 
that  I  am  walking  along  the  road,  entering  your 
house,  opening  the  door,  coming  into  your  room. 
.  .  .  You  're  sitting  somewhere ;  at  the  table, 
say.  ...  I  walk  up  to  you  from  behind  quietly 
and  stealthily.  .  .  .  You  don't  hear  me.  ...  I 
seize  your  shoulder  with  my  hands  and  begin  to 
squeeze  .  .  .  stronger,  stronger,  stronger.  ...  I 
stare  at  you,  just  like  this.     Look  !  .  .  .' 

Her  thin  eyebrows  suddenly  closed  together. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  me  in  a  stare,  fascinat- 
ing, threatening.  Her  pupils  dilated  and  be- 
came blue.  Instantly  I  remembered  a  Medusa's 
head,  the  work  of  a  painter  I  have  forgotten,  in 
the  Trietyakov  Gallery  in  Moscow.  Beneath 
this  strange  look  I  was  seized  by  a  cold  terror 
of  the  supernatural. 

'Well,  that'll  do,  Olyessia.  .  .  .  That's 
enough,'  I  said  with  a  forced  laugh.  '  I  much 
prefer  you  \vhen  you  smile.  Your  face  is  so  kind 
and  childlike.' 

We  went  on.  I  suddenly  recollected  the  ex- 
pressiveness of  Olyessia's  conversation — elegance 
even  for  a  simple  girl — and  I  said  : 

'  Do  you  know  what  surprises  me  in  you, 
Olyessia  ?  You  've  grown  up  in  the  forest  with- 
out seeing  a  soul.  ...  Of  course,  you  can't  read 
very  much.  .  .  .' 

*  I  can't  read  at  all.' 


176  THE  WITCH 

'  Well,  that  makes  it  all  the  more.  .  .  .  Yet 
you  speak  as  well  as  a  real  lady.  Tell  me,  where 
did  you  learn  it  ?  You  understand  what  I 
mean  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  I  understand.  It 's  from  granny.  You 
mustn't  judge  her  by  her  appearance.  She  is  so 
clever  !  Some  day  she  may  speak  when  you  are 
there,  when  she  has  become  used  to  you.  She 
knows  everything,  everything  on  earth  that  you 
can  ask  her.     It 's  true  she  's  old  now.' 

'  Then  she  has  seen  a  great  deal  in  her  lifetime. 
Where  does  she  come  from  ?  Where  did  she  live 
before  ?  ' 

It  seemed  that  these  questions  did  not  please 
Olyessia.  She  hesitated  to  answer,  evasive  and 
reluctant. 

'  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  She  doesn't  hke  to  talk 
of  that  herself.  If  ever  she  says  anything  about 
it,  she  asks  you  to  forget  it,  to  put  it  quite  out 
of  mind.  .  .  .  But  it 's  time  for  me.  .  .  .' 
Olyessia  hastened,  '  Granny  will  be  cross.  Good- 
bye. .  .  .  Forgive  me,]^but  I  don't  know  your 
name.' 

I  gave  her  my  name. 

'  Ivan  Timofeyevich  ?  Well,  that 's  all 
right.  Good-bye,  Ivan  Timofeyevich !  Don't 
disdain  our  hut.     Come  sometimes.' 

I  held  out  my  hand  at  parting,  and  her  small 
strong  hand  responded  with  a  vigorous  friendly 
grip. 


THE  WITCH  177 


VI 

From  that  day  I  began  to  be  a  frequent  visitor  to 
the  chicken -legged  house.  Every  time  I  came 
Olyessia  met  me  with  her  usual  dignified  reserve. 
But  I  always  could  tell,  by  the  first  involuntary 
she  made  on  seeing  me,  that  she  was  glad  that  I 
had  come.  The  old  woman  still  went  on  grumb- 
ling as  she  used,  muttering  under  her  nose,  but 
she  expressed  no  open  malevolence,  owing  to  her 
granddaughter's  intercession,  of  which  I  was 
certain  though  I  had  not  witnessed  it.  Also,  the 
presents  I  would  bring  her  from  time  to  time 
made  a  considerable  impression  in  my  favour — a 
warm  shawl,  a  pot  of  jam,  a  bottle  of  cherry 
brandy.  As  though  by  tacit  consent,  Olyessia 
began  to  make  a  habit  of  accompanying  me  as 
far  as  the  Irenov  road  as  I  went  home.  And 
there  always  began  such  a  lively  interesting  con- 
versation, that  involuntarily  we  both  made  an 
effort  to  prolong  the  journey,  walking  as  slowly 
as  possible  in  the  silent  fringes  of  the  forest. 
When  we  came  to  the  Irenov  road,  I  went  back 
half  a  mile  with  her,  and  even  then  before  we 
parted  we  would  stand  talking  for  a  long  while 
beneath  the  fragrant  shade  of  the  pine  branches. 
It  was  not  only  Olyessia' s  beauty  that  fascin- 
ated me,  but  her  whole  free  independent  nature, 
her  mind  at  once  clear  and  enwrapped  in  un- 

M 


178  THE  WITCH 

shakable  ancestral  superstitions,  childlike  and 
innocent,  yet  not  Avholly  devoid  of  the  sly 
coquetry  of  the  handsome  woman.  She  never 
tired  of  asking  me  every  detail  concerning  things 
which  stirred  her  bright  unspoiled  imagination — 
countries  and  peoples,  natural  phenomena,  the 
order  of  the  earth  and  the  universe,  learned  men, 
large  towns.  .  .  .  Many  things  seemed  to  her 
wonderful,  fairy,  incredible.  But  from  the  very 
beginning  of  our  acquaintance  I  took  such  a 
serious,  sincere,  and  simple  tone  with  her  that 
she  readily  put  a  complete  trust  in  all  my  stories. 
Sometimes  when  I  was  at  a  loss  for  an  exf)lana- 
tion  of  something  which  I  thought  was  too 
difficult  for  her  half-savage  mind — it  was  often 
by  no  means  clear  to  my  own, — I  answered  her 
eager  questions  with,  '  You  see.  ...  I  shan't 
be  able  to  explain  this  to  you.  .  .  .  You  won't 
understand  me.' 

Then  she  would  begin  to  entreat  me. 

'  Please  tell  me,  please,  I  '11  trj'.  .  .  .  Tell  me 
somehow,  though  .  .  .  even  if  it 's  not  clear.' 

She  forced  me  to  have  recourse  to  preposter- 
ous comparisons  and  incredibly  bold  analogies, 
and  when  I  was  at  a  loss  for  a  suitable  expression 
she  would  help  me  out  with  a  torrent  of  im- 
patient conclusions,  like  those  which  we  offer 
to  a  stammerer.  And  indeed  in  the  end  her 
pliant  mobile  mind  and  her  fresh  imagination 
triumphed  over  my  pedagogic  impotence.  I 
became  convinced  that,  considering  her  en- 
vironment and  her  education  (rather,  lack  of 
education)  her  abilities  were  amazing. 


THE  WITCH  179 

Once  I  happened  in  passing  to  mention  Peters- 
burg.    Olyessia  was  instantly  intrigued. 

'  What  is  Petersburg  ?     A  small  town  ?  ' 

'  No,  it 's  not  a  small  one.  It 's  the  biggest 
Russian  city.' 

'  The  biggest  ?  The  very  largest  of  all  ? 
There  isn't  one  bigger  ?  '  she  insisted  naively. 

'  The  largest  of  all.  The  chief  authorities  live 
there  .  .  .  the  big  folks.  The  houses  there  are  all 
made  of  stone ;  there  aren't  any  wooden  ones.' 

'  Of  course,  it 's  much  bigger  than  our 
Stiepany  ?  '  Olyessia  asked  confidently. 

'  Oh,  yes.  A  good  bit  bigger.  Say  five 
hundred  times  as  big.  There  are  houses  there 
so  big  that  twice  as  many  people  live  in  a  single 
one  of  them  as  in  the  whole  of  Stiepany.' 

'  My  God  !  What  kind  of  houses  can  they 
be  ?  '  Olyessia  asked  almost  in  fright. 

'  Terrible  houses.  Five,  six,  even  seven 
stories.     You  see  that  fir  tree  there  ?  ' 

'  The  tall  one.     I  see.' 

'  Houses  as  tall  as  that,  and  they  're  crammed 
with  people  from  top  to  bottom.  The  people 
live  in  wretched  little  holes,  like  birds  in  cages, 
ten  people  in  each,  so  that  there  isn't  enough  air 
to  breathe.  Some  of  them  live  downstairs,  right 
under  the  earth,  in  the  damp  and  cold.  They 
don't  see  the  sun  from  one  end  of  the  year  to  the 
other,  some  of  them.' 

'  Nothing  would  make  me  change  my  forest 
for  your  city,'  Olyessia  said,  shaking  her  head, 
'  Even  when  I  go  to  the  market  at  Stiepany, 
I  'm  disgusted.     They  push,  shout,  swear  .  .  . 


180  THE  WITCH 

and  I  have  such  a  longing  for  the  forest,  that  I 
want  to  throw  everything  away  and  run  and 
never  look  back.  God  may  have  your  city  :  I 
don't  want  to  live  there.' 

'  But  what  if  your  husband  comes  from  a 
town  ?  '   I  asked  with  the  trace  of  a  smile. 

Her  eyebroAVS  frowned  and  her  nostrils 
trembled. 

'  What  next ! '  she  said  with  scorn.  '  I  don't 
want  a  husband.' 

'  You  say  that  now,  Olyessia.  Nearly  every 
girl  says  the  same,  but  still  they  marry.  You 
wait  a  bit :  you  '11  meet  somebody  and  you  '11 
fall  in  love — and  you  '11  follow  him,  not  only  to 
town,  but  to  the  end  of  the  earth.' 

*  No,  no.  .  .  .  We  won't  talk  of  that,  please,' 
she  cut  me  short  in  vexation.  '  Why  should  we 
talk  like  this  ?     I  ask  you  not  to.' 

'  How  funny  you  are,  Olyessia.  Do  you  really 
believe  you  '11  never  love  a  man  in  your  life  ? 
You  're  so  young,  handsome,  strong.  If  your 
blood  once  catches  fire,  no  oaths  of  yours  will 
help  you.' 

'  Well,  .  .  .  then,  I  '11  love,'  Olyessia  answered 
with  a  challenge  in  her  flashing  eyes,  '  I  shan't 
ask  anybody's  leave.' 

'  So  you  '11  have  to  marry  too,'  I  teased  her. 

'  I  suppose  you  're  meaning  the  church  ?  ' 
she  guessed. 

'  Exactly — the  church.  The  priest  will  lead 
you  round  the  altar ;  the  deacon  will  sing, 
"  Isaiah,  rejoice  !  "  they  '11  put  a  crown  on  your 
head.  .  .  .' 


THE  WITCH  181 

Olyessia  cast  down  her  eyes  and  shook  her 
head,  faintly  smiling. 

'  No,  dear.  .  .  .  Perhaps  you  won't  like  what 
I  say,  but  in  our  family  no  one  was  ever  married 
in  church.  My  mother  and  my  grandmother 
before  her  managed  to  live  without  that.  .  .  . 
Besides,  we  must  not  enter  a  church.  .  .  .' 

'  All  because  of  your  witchery  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  because  of  our  witchery,'  Olyessia 
replied  with  a  calm  seriousness.  *  How  could  I 
dare  to  appear  in  a  church?  From  my  very 
birth  my  soul  was  sold  to  Him.' 

*  Olyessia,  dear.  .  .  .  Believe  me,  you  're 
deceiving  yourself.  It  *s  wild  and  ridiculous 
what  you  say.' 

Once  more  there  appeared  on  Olyessia's  face 
the  strange  expression  of  convinced  and  gloomy 
submissiveness  to  her  mysterious  destiny,  which 
I  had  noticed  before. 

'  No,  no.  .  .  .  You  can't  understand  it.  .  .  . 
But  I  feel  it.  .  .  .  Just  here.  .  .  .'  She  pressed 
her  hand  strongly  to  her  heart.  '  I  feel  it  in  my 
soul.  All  our  family  is  cursed  for  ever  and  ever. 
But  think  yourself,  who  is  it  that  helps  us  if  it 
is  not  He  ?  Can  an  ordinary  person  do  the 
things  I  can  do  ?  All  our  power  comes  from 
Him: 

Every  time  our  conversation  touched  upon 
this  strange  theme  it  ended  in  the  same  way. 
In  vain  I  exhausted  every  argument  to  which 
Olyessia  was  sensible  ;  in  vain  I  spoke  in  simple 
terms  of  hypnotism,  suggestion,  mental  doctors, 
and  Indian  fakirs  ;    in  vain  I  endeavoured  to 


182  THE  WITCH 

explain  certain  of  her  experiments  by  physiology, 
such,  for  instance,  as  blood  charming,  which  is 
easily  produced  by  skilful  pressure  on  a  vein. 
Still  Olyessia,  who  believed  me  so  implicitly  in 
all  else,  refuted  all  my  arguments  and  explana- 
tions with  obstinate  insistence. 

*  Very  well,  I  '11  make  you  a  present  of  blood 
charming,'  she  said,  raising  her  voice  in  the  heat 
of  the  discussion.  '  But  where  do  the  other 
things  come  from  ?  Is  blood  charming  the  only 
thing  I  know  ?  Would  you  like  me  to  take  away 
all  the  mice  and  beetles  from  a  hut  in  a  single 
day  ?  If  you  like,  I  '11  cure  the  most  violent 
fever  in  two  days  with  plain  cold  water,  even 
though  all  your  doctors  give  the  patient  up.  I 
can  make  you  forget  any  word  you  like,  com- 
pletely ?  And  how  is  it  I  interpret  dreams  ? 
How  is  it  I  can  see  the  future  ?  ' 

The  discussion  always  ended  by  our  mutual 
silence,  from  which  a  certain  inward  irritation 
against  each  other  was  not  wholly  absent. 
Indeed,  for  much  of  her  black  art  I  could  find  no 
explanation  in  my  small  science.  I  do  not  know 
and  cannot  say  whether  Olyessia  possessed  one 
half  the  secrets  of  which  she  spoke  with  such 
naive  belief.  But  the  things  which  1  frequently 
witnessed  planted  an  unshakable  conviction  in 
me  that  Olyessia  had  access  to  that  strange 
knowledge,  unconscious,  instinctive,  dim,  ac- 
quired only  by  accidental  experience,  which  has 
outrun  exact  science  for  centuries,  and  lives 
intertwined  with  wild  and  ridiculous  supersti- 
tions, in  the  obscure  impenetrable  heart  of  the 


THE  WITCH  183 

masses,  where  it  is  transmitted  from  one  genera- 
tion to  another  as  the  greatest  of  all  secrets. 

For  all  our  disagreement  on  this  single  point, 
we  became  more  and  more  strongly  attached  to 
one  another.  Not  a  word  had  been  spoken  be- 
tween us  of  love  as  yet,  but  it  had  become  a 
necessity  for  us  to  be  together  ;  and  often  in 
moments  of  silence  I  saw  Olyessia's  eyes  moisten, 
and  a  thin  blue  vein  on  her  temple  begin  to  pulse. 

But  my  relations  with  Yarmola  were  quite 
ruined.  Evidently  my  visits  to  the  chicken- 
legged  hut  were  no  secret  to  him,  nor  were  my 
evening  walks  with  Olyessia.  With  amazing- 
exactness,  he  always  knew  everything  that  went 
on  in  the  forest.  For  some  time  I  noticed  that 
he  had  begun  to  avoid  me.  His  black  eyes 
watched  me  from  a  distance,  with  reproach  and 
discontent  every  time  I  лvent  out  to  walk  in  the 
forest,  though  he  did  not  express  his  reproof  by 
so  much  as  a  single  word.  Our  comically  serious 
studies  in  reading  and  writing  came  to  an  end ; 
and  if  I  occasionally  called  Yarmola  in  to  learn 
during  the  evening  he  would  only  wave  his  hand. 

'  What 's  the  good  ?  It 's  a  peggling  business, 
sir  I '  he  would  say  with  lazy  contempt. 

Our  hunting  also  ceased.  Every  time  I  began 
to  talk  of  it,  Yarmola  found  some  excuse  or 
other  for  refusing.  Either  his  gun  was  out  of 
order,  or  his  dog  was  ill,  or  he  was  too  busy.  '  I 
have  no  time,  sir.  ...  I  have  to  be  ploughing 
to-day,'  was  Yarmola' s  usual  answer  to  my  in- 
vitation ;  but  I  knew  quite  well  that  he  would 
do  no  ploughing  at  all,  but  spend  a  good  hour 


184  THE  WITCH 

outside  the  inn  in  the  doubtful  hope  of  some- 
body standing  him  a  drink.  This  silent,  con- 
cealed animosity  began  to  weary  me,  and  I  began 
to  think  of  dispensing  with  Yarmola's  services, 
on  the  first  suitable  occasion.  ...  I  was  re- 
strained only  by  a  sense  of  pity  for  his  enormous 
poverty-stricken  family,  whom  Yarmola's  four 
weekly  roubles  just  saved  from  starvation. 


THE  WITCH  185 


VII 

Once  when  I  came  to  the  chicken-legged  hut, 
as  my  habit  was,  just  before  dark,  I  was  im- 
mediately struck  by  the  anxiety  of  its  occupants. 
The  old  woman  sat  with  her  feet  on  the  bed, 
hunched  up,  and  swayed  to  and  fro  with  her  head 
in  her  hands,  murmuring  something  I  could  not 
catch.  She  paid  no  attention  to  my  greeting. 
Olyessia  welcomed  me  kindly  as  always,  but  our 
conversation  made  no  headway.  She  listened 
to  me  absently  and  answered  me  inconsequently. 
On  her  beautiful  face  lay  the  shadoлv  of  some 
unceasing  secret  trouble. 

'  Something  bad  has  happened  to  you,  Olyessia, 
I  can  see,'  I  said  cautiously,  touching  her  hand 
which  lay  on  the  bench. 

Olyessia  quickly  turned  her  face  to  the 
window,  as  though  she  were  examining  some- 
thing. She  tried  to  look  calm,  but  her  eyebrows 
drew  together  and  trembled,  and  her  teeth 
violently  bit  her  under  lip. 

'  No,  .  .  .  what  could  have  happened  to  us  ?  ' 
she  said  with  a  dull  voice.  '  Everything  is  just 
as  it  was.' 

'  Olyessia,  why  don't  you  tell  me  the  truth  ? 
It 's  wrong  of  you.  ...  I  thought  that  we  had 
become  real  friends.' 


186  THE  WITCH 

'  It 's    nothing,    really.  .  .  .  Nothing.  .  .  . 
Our  troubles  .  .  .  trifles.' 

'  No,  Olyessia,  they  don't  seem  to  be  trifles. 
You  're  not  like  yourself.' 

'  That 's  only  your  fancy.' 

'  Be  frank  with  me,  Olyessia.  I  don't  know 
whether  I  can  help,  but  I  can  give  you  some 
advice  perhaps.  .  .  .  And,  anyhow,  you  '11  feel 
better  when  you  've  shared  your  trouble.' 

'  But  it 's  really  not  worth  talking  about,' 
Olyessia  replied  impatiently.  '  You  can't  pos- 
sibly help  us  at  all,  now.' 

Suddenly,  with  unexpected  passion,  the  old 
woman  broke  into  the  conversation. 

'  Why  are  you  so  stubborn,  you  little  fool  ? 
Some  one  talks  business  to  you,  and  you  hold  up 
your  nose.  As  if  nobody  in  the  world  was 
cleverer  than  you  !  If  you  please,  sir,  I  '11  tell 
you  the  whole  story,'  she  said,  turning  towards 
me,  '  beginning  with  the  beginning.' 

The  trouble  appeared  much  more  considerable 
than  I  could  have  supposed  from  Olyessia' s  proud 
words.  The  evening  before,  the  local  policeman 
had  come  to  the  chicken-legged  hut. 

'  First  he  sat  down,  nice  and  politely,  and 
asked  for  vodka,'  Manuilikha  said,  '  and  then 
he  began  and  went  on  and  on.  "  Clear  out  of 
the  hut  in  twenty-four  hours  with  all  your  be- 
longings. If  I  come  next  time,"  he  says,  "  and 
find  you  here,  then  I  tell  you,  you  '11  go  to  jail. 
I  '11  send  you  away  with  a  couple  of  soldiers  to 
your  native  place,  curse  you."  But  you  know, 
sir,  my  native  place  is  hundreds  of  miles  away, 


THE  WITCH  187 

the  town  of  Amchensk.  ...  I  haven't  a  soul 
there  now  who  knows  me.  Our  passports  have 
been  out  of  date  for  years,  and  besides  they 
aren't  in  order.  Ah,  my  God,  what  mis- 
fortune ! ' 

'  Then  why  did  he  let  you  live  here  before,  and 
only  just  now  made  up  his  mind  ?  ' 

'  How  can  I  tell  ?  .  .  .  He  shouted  out  some- 
thing or  other,  but  I  confess  I  couldn't  under- 
stand it.  You  see  hoAV  it  is  :  this  hole  we 
live  in  isn't  ours.  It  belongs  to  the  landlord. 
Olyessia  and  I  used  to  live  in  the  village  before, 
but  the ' 

'  Yes,  yes,  I  know,  granny.  I  've  heard 
about  that.  The  peasants  got  angry  with 
you ' 

'  That 's  it,  exactly.  So  I  begged  this  hut 
from  the  old  landlord,  Mr.  Abrossimov.  Now, 
they  say  a  new  landlord  has  bought  the  forest, 
and  it  seems  he  wants  to  drain  some  marshes. 
But  what  can  I  do  ?  ' 

'  Perhaps  it 's  all  a  lie,  granny,'  I  said.  '  And 
the  sergeant  only  wants  to  get  a  pound  out  of 
you.' 

'  But  I  offered  it  to  him,  I  offered  it,  sir.  He 
wouldn't  take  it.  It 's  a  strange  business.  .  .  . 
I  offered  him  three  pounds,  but  he  wouldn't  take 
it.  .  .  .  It  was  awful.  He  swore  at  me  so  badly 
that  I  didn't  know  where  I  was.  All  the  while 
he  went  on  saying  :  "Be  off  with  you,  be  off !  " 
What  can  we  do  now  ?  We  're  alone  in  the  world. 
Good  sir,  you  might  manage  to  help  us  in  some 
way.    You  could  speak  to  him ;    his  belly 's 


188  THE  WITCH 

never  satisfied.  I  'm  sure  I  'd  be  grateful  to 
you  eternally.' 

'  Granny  ! '  said  Olyessia,  in  a  slow  reproachful 
voice. 

'  What  do  you  mean,  "  Granny  !  "  '  The  old 
woman  was  annoyed.  '  Twenty-five  years  I  've 
been  a  granny  to  you.  And  what 's  your 
opinion  ;  it 's  better  to  carry  a  beggar's  pack  ? 
No,  don't  listen  to  her,  sir  !  Of  your  charity,  do 
something  for  us  if  you  can.' 

I  gave  her  vague  promises  to  take  some  steps, 
though,  to  tell  the  truth  I  could  see  but  little 
hope.  If  our  sergeant  wouldn't  take  money, 
then  the  affair  must  be  very  serious.  That 
evening  Olyessia  parted  from  me  coldly,  and, 
quite  against  her  usual  habit,  did  not  walk  with 
me.  I  could  see  that  the  proud  girl  was  angry 
with  me  for  interfering,  and  rather  ashamed  of 
her  grandmother's  whimpering. 


THE  WITCH  189 


VIII 

It  was  a  warm,  greyish  morning.  Several  times 
already  there  had  been  brief  showers  of  heavy 
fruitful  rain,  which  makes  the  young  grass  grow 
before  your  eyes  and  the  new  shoots  stretch  out. 
After  the  rain  the  sun  peeped  out  for  a  moment, 
pouring  its  joyous  glitter  over  the  tender  green 
of  the  lilac  bushes,  sodden  with  the  rain,  which 
made  all  my  hedge.  The  sparrows'  impetuous 
chirrup  grew  louder  among  the  lush  garden- 
beds,  and  the  scent  of  the  sticky  brown  poplar 
buds  came  sweeter.  I  was  sitting  at  the  table, 
drawing  a  plan  of  timber  to  be  felled,  when 
Yarmola  entered  the  room. 

'  The  sergeant 's  here,'  he  said  gloomily. 

At  the  moment  I  had  completely  forgotten 
that  I  had  ordered  him  a  couple  of  days  ago  to 
let  me  know  in  case  the  sergeant  were  to  pass. 
It  was  impossible  for  me  to  understand  im- 
mediately what  was  the  connection  between  me 
and  the  delegate  of  authority. 

'  What  ?  '  I  said  in  confusion. 

'  I  say  the  sergeant 's  here,'  Yarmola  re- 
peated in  the  same  hostile  tone  that  he  normally 
assumed  towards  me  during  the  last  days.  '  I 
saw  him  on  the  dam  just  now.   He's  coming  here.' 

There  was  a  rumble  of  wheels  on  the  road  out- 
side.    A  long  thin  chocolate-coloured  gelding 


190  THE  WITCH 

with  a  hanging  under  hp,  and  an  insulted  look 
on  its  face,  gravely  trotted  up  with  a  tall,  jolting, 
basket  gig.  There  was  only  a  single  trace.  The 
place  of  the  other  was  supplied  by  a  piece  of 
stout  rope.  (Malicious  tongues  asserted  that 
the  sergeant  had  put  this  miserable  contraption 
together  on  purpose  to  avoid  any  undesirable 
comments.)  The  sergeant  himself  held  the  reins, 
filling  both  seats  with  his  enormous  body,  which 
was  wrapped  in  a  grey  uniform  made  of  smart 
military  cloth. 

'  Good-day  to  you,  Evpsychyi  Afrikanovich  ! ' 
I  called,  leaning  out  of  the  window. 

'  Ah,  good-day  !  How  do  you  do  ?  '  he  an- 
swered in  a  loud,  courteous,  official  baritone. 

He  drew  up  his  horse,  saluted  with  straight- 
ened palm,  and  bent  his  body  forward  with 
elephantine  grace. 

'  Come  in  for  a  moment.  I  've  got  a  little 
business  with  you.' 

The  sergeant  spread  his  hands  wide  and  shook 
his  head. 

'  Can't  possibly.  I  'm  on  duty.  I  've  got  to 
go  to  Volocha  for  an  inquest — man  drowned.' 

But  I  knew  Evpsychyi' s  weak  points  ;  so  I 
said  with  assumed  indifference : 

'  It 's  a  pity  ...  a  great  pity  .  .  .  and  I  've 
got  a  couple  of  bottles  of  the  best  from  Count 
Vortzel's  cellar.  .  .  .' 

'  Can't  manage  it.  .  .  .  Duty.' 

'  The  butler  sold  them  to  me,  because  he  's  an 
acquaintance  of  mine.  He  'd  brought  them  up 
in  the  cellar,  like  his  own  children.  .  .  .  You 


THE  WITCH  191 

ought  to  come  in.  .  .  .  I  '11  tell  them  to  give 
the  horse  a  feed.' 

'  You  're  a  nice  one,  you  are,'  the  sergeant  said 
in  reproof.  '  Don't  you  know  that  duty  comes 
first  of  all  ?  .  .  .  What 's  in  the  bottles, 
though  ?     Plum  wine  ?  ' 

'  Plum  wine  ! '  I  waved  my  hand.  '  It 's  the 
real  old  stuff,  that 's  what  it  is,  my  dear  sir  ! ' 

'  I  must  confess  I  've  just  had  a  bite  and  a 
drop.'  The  sergeant  scratched  his  cheek  regret- 
fully, wrinkling  his  face  incredibly. 

I  continued  with  the  same  calm. 

'  I  don't  know  whether  it 's  true  ;  but  the 
butler  swore  it  Avas  two  hundred  years  old.  It 
smells  just  like  an  old  cognac,  and  it 's  as  yellow 
as  amber.' 

'  Ah,  what  are  you  doing  w^ith  me  ?  '  said 
the  sergeant.     '  Who  '11  hold  my  horse  ?  ' 

I  really  had  some  bottles  of  the  old  liqueur, 
though  it  Avas  not  quite  so  old  as  I  made  out ; 
but  I  thought  that  suggestion  might  easily 
add  a  hundred  years  to  its  age.  ...  At  any 
rate  it  was  the  real  home-distilled,  omnipotent 
stuff,  the  pride  of  a  ruined  magnate's  cellar. 
(Evpsychyi  Afrikanovich,  who  was  the  son  of  a 
parson,  immediately  begged  a  bottle  from  me,  in 
case,  as  he  put  it,  he  were  to  catch  a  bad  cold.) 
Besides,  I  had  some  very  conducive  hors  d'oeuvre: 
young  radishes,  with  fresh  churned  butter. 

'  NoAv,  what 's  the  little  business  ?  '  the 
sergeant  asked  after  his  fifth  glass,  throwing  him- 
self back  in  the  old  chair  which  groaned  under 
him. 


192  THE  WITCH 

I  began  to  explain  the  position  of  the  poor  old 
woman  ;  1  dwelt  on  her  hopeless  despair  ;  spoke 
lightly  of  useless  formalities.  The  sergeant 
listened  to  me  with  his  head  bent  down,  methodi- 
cally clearing  the  small  roots  from  the  succulent 
red  radishes,  and  chewing  and  crunching  them 
лvith  relish.  Now  and  then  he  gave  me  a  quick 
glance  with  his  cloudy,  indifferent,  preposter- 
ously little  blue  eyes ;  but  I  could  read  nothing 
on  his  great  red  face,  neither  sympathy  nor 
opposition.  When  I  finally  became  silent,  he 
only  asked. 

'  Well,  лvhat  is  it  you  want  from  me  ?  ' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ?  '  I  became  agitated. 
'  Look  at  their  position,  please — two  poor  de- 
fenceless women  living  there ' 

'  And  one  of  them  's  a  perfect  little  bud  1  '  the 
sergeant  put  in  maliciously. 

'  Bud  or  no  bud — that  doesn't  come  into  it. 
But  why  shouldn't  you  take  some  interest  in 
them  ?  As  though  you  really  need  to  turn  them 
out  in  such  a  hurry  ?  Just  wait  a  day  or  two 
until  I  've  been  to  the  landlord.  What  do  you 
stand  to  lose,  even  if  you  waited  for  a  month  ?  ' 

'  What  do  I  stand  to  lose  ?  '  The  sergeant 
rose  in  his  chair.  '  Good  God  !  I  stand  to  lose 
everything — my  job,  first  of  all.  Who  knows 
what  sort  of  a  man  this  new  landlord,  Ilyashe- 
vich  is  ?  Perhaps  he  's  an  underhand  devil,  one 
of  the  sort  who  get  hold  of  a  bit  of  paper  and 
a  pen  on  the  slightest  provocation,  and  send  a 
little  report  to  Petersburg  ?  There  are  men  of 
the  kind  ! ' 


,  THE  WITCH  198 

I  tried  to  reassure  the  agitated  sergeant. 

'  That 's  enough,  Evpsychyi  Afrikanovich  ! 
You  're  exaggerating  the  whole  affair.  After  all, 
a  risk  's  a  risk,  and  gratitude  's  gratitude.' 

'  Ph-e-w  !  '  The  sergeant  gave  a  long-drawn 
whistle  and  thrust  his  hands  into  his  trouser- 
pockets.  '  It 's  gratitude,  is  it  ?  Do  you  think 
I  'm  going  to  stake  my  official  position  for  three 
pounds  ?     No,  you  've  got  a  wrong  idea  of  me.' 

'  But  what  are  you  getting  warm  about, 
Evpsychyi  Afrikanovich  ?  The  amount  isn't 
the  point,  just  simply — well,  let 's  say,  for 
humanity's  sake ' 

'  For  hu-man-i-tj^'s  sake  ?  '  He  hammered 
out  each  syllable.  '  I  'm  full  up  to  here  with 
your  humanity ! '  He  tapped  vigorously  on 
the  bronzed  nape  of  his  mighty  neck  which  hung 
down  over  his  collar  in  a  fat,  hairless  fold. 

'  That 's  a  bit  too  strong,  Evpsychyi 
Afrikanovich.' 

'  Not  a  bit  too  strong  !  "  They  're  the  plague 
of  the  place,"  as  Mr.  Krylov,  the  famous  fable- 
writer,  said.  That 's  what  these  two  ladies  are. 
You  don't  happen  to  have  read  that  splendid 
work,  by  His  Excellency  Count  Urussov,  called 
The  Police  Sergeant  ?  ' 

'  No,  I  haven't.' 

'  Well,  you  ought  to  have.  A  brilliant  work, 
highly  moral.  I  would  advise  you  to  make  its 
acquaintance  when  you  have  the  time ' 

'  Right,  I  '11  do  so  with  pleasure.  But  still  I 
don't  see  what  this  book  's  got  to  do  with  these 
two  poor  women.' 


194  THE  WITCH 

'  What 's  it  got  to  do  with  them  V  A  great 
deal.  Firstly  '  (Evpsychyi  Afrikanovich  ticked 
off  the  fat  hairy  forefinger  of  his  left  hand) : 
'  "  It  is  the  duty  of  a  police  sergeant  to  take  the 
greatest  care  that  all  the  people  go  to  the  Church 
of  God,  without,  however,  compelling  them  by 
force  to  remain  there.  ..."  I  ask  you,  does 
she  go — what 's  her  name ;  Manuilikha,  isn't 
it  ?  .  .  .  Does  she  ever  go  to  church  ?  ' 

I  was  silent,  surprised  by  the  unexpected  turn 
of  his  speech.  He  gave  me  a  look  of  triumph, 
and  ticked  off  his  second  finger.  '  Secondly  : 
"  False  prophecies  and  prognostications  are 
everywhere  forbidden.  ..."  Do  you  notice 
that  ?  Then,  thirdly  :  "  It  is  illegal  to  profess 
to  be  a  sorcerer  or  a  magician,  or  to  employ 
similar  deceptions."  What  do  you  say  to  that  ? 
And  suppose  all  this  becomes  known,  or  gets 
round  to  the  authorities  by  some  back  way,  who 
has  to  pay  for  it  ?  I  do.  Who  gets  sacked 
from  the  service  ?  I  do.  Now  you  see  what  a 
business  it  is.' 

He  sat  down  in  his  chair  again.  His  raised  eyes 
wandered  absently  over  the  walls  of  the  room 
and  his  fingers  drummed  loudly  on  the  table. 

'  Well,  what  if  I  ask  you,  Evpsychyi  Afrikano- 
vich,' I  began  once  more  in  a  gentle  voice.  '  Of 
course  I  know  your  duties  are  complicated  and 
troublesome,  but  you  've  got  a  heart,  I  know,  a 
heart  of  gold.  What  will  it  cost  you  to  promise 
me  not  to  touch  these  women  ?  ' 

The  sergeant's  eyes  suddenly  stopped,  over 
my  head. 


THE  WITCH  195 

'  That 's  a  nice  little  gun  you  've  got,'  he  said 
carelessly,  still  drumming  his  fingers.  '  A 
splendid  little  gun.  Last  time  I  came  to  see 
you  and  you  were  out,  I  admired  it  all  the 
while.     A  splendid  gun  ! ' 

'  Yes,  it 's  not  a  bad  gun,'  I  agreed.  '  It 's  an 
old  pattern,  made  by  Gastin-Rennet ;  but  last 
year  I  had  it  converted  into  a  hammerless. 
You  just  look  at  the  barrels.' 

'  Yes,  yes  ...  it  was  the  barrels  I  admired 
most.  ...  A  magnificent  piece  of  work.  I  'd 
call  it  a  perfect  treasure.' 

Our  eyes  met,  and  I  saw  the  trace  of  a  meaning 
smile  flickering  in  the  corner  of  the  sergeant's  lips. 
I  rose  from  my  seat,  took  the  gun  off  the  wall 
and  approached  Evpsychyi  Afrikanovich  with  it. 

*  The  Circassians  have  an  admirable  custom,' 
I  said  courteously,  '  of  presenting  a  guest  with 
anything  that  he  praises.  Though  we  are  not 
Circassians,  Evpsychyi  Afrikanovich,  I  entreat 
you  to  accept  this  from  me  as  a  memento.' 

For  appearance'  sake  the  sergeant  blushed. 

'  My  goodness,  what  a  beauty  !  No,  no.  .  .  . 
That  custom  is  far  too  generous.' 

However,  I  did  not  have  to  entreat  him  long. 
The  sergeant  accepted  the  gun,  carefully  put  it 
between  his  knees  and  with  a  clean  handker- 
chief lovingly  wiped  away  the  dust  that  had 
settled  on  the  lock  ;  and  I  was  rather  mollified 
when  I  saw  that  the  gun  had  at  least  passed  into 
the  hands  of  an  expert  and  an  amateur.  Almost 
immediately  Evpsychyi  Afrikanovich  got  up 
and  began  to  hurry  away. 


196  THE  WITCH 

'  Business  won't  wait,  and  here  I  've  been 
gossiping  with  you,'  he  said,  noisily  banging  on 
the  floor  with  his  reluctant  goloshes.  '  When  you 
happen  to  come  our  way,  you  '11  be  most  welcome.' 

'  Well,  what  about  Manuilikha,  my  dear 
Authority  ?  '  I  reminded  him  delicately. 

'  We  '11  see,  we  '11  see,  .  .  .'  Evpsychyi 
Afrikanovich  vaguely  muttered.  '  There  was 
something  else  I  wanted  to  ask  you.  .  .  .  Your 
radishes  are  magnificent.  .  .  .' 

'  I  grew  them  myself.' 

'  Mag-nificent  radishes  !  You  know,  my  wife 
is  terribly  partial  to  garden-stuff.  So,  you  know, 
one  little  bundle.  .  .  .' 

'  With  the  greatest  pleasure,  Evpsychyi 
Afrikanovich.  I  consider  it  an  obligation.  .  .  . 
This  very  day  I  '11  send  a  basket  by  messenger. 
Let  me  send  some  butter  as  well.  .  .  .  My 
butter  's  quite  a  special  thing.' 

'  Well,  butter  too,  .  .  .'  the  sergeant  graciously 
permitted.  '  And  you  can  tip  those  women  the 
wink  that  I  shan'  t  touch  them  for  the  time  being. 
But  you  'd  better  let  them  know  ' — he  raised  his 
voice  suddenly — '  that  they  can't  settle  me  with 
a  "  Thank  you."  .  .  .  Now,  I  wish  you  good-bye. 
Once  more,  merci  for  the  present  and  the  enter- 
tainment.' 

He  clicked  his  heels  together  like  a  soldier,  and 
walked  to  his  carriage  with  the  ponderous  gait 
of  a  full-fed,  important  person.  By  his  carriage 
were  already  gathered  the  village  policeman,  the 
mayor  and  Yarmola,  in  respectful  attitudes,  with 
their  heads  bare. 


THE  WITCH  197 


IX 

EvpsYCHYi  Afrikanovich  kept  his  word  and 
left  the  people  of  the  forest  hut  in  peace  in- 
definitely. But  my  relations  with  Olyessia 
suffered  an  acute  and  curious  change.  Not  a 
trace  of  her  old  naive  and  confident  kindness  re- 
mained in  her  attitude  to  me,  nor  any  of  the  old 
animation  wherein'  the  coquetry  of  a  beautiful 
girl  so  beautifully  blended  with  the  playful 
wantonness  of  a  child.  An  awkward  con- 
straint beyond  which  we  could  not  pass  began 
to  appear  in  our  conversation.  .  .  .  With  an 
instant  timidity  Olyessia  avoided  the  lively 
themes  which  used  to  give  such  boundless  scope 
to  our  curiosity. 

In  my  presence  she  gave  herself  up  to  her  work 
in  a  strained,  stern,  business-like  way  ;  but  I 
often  noticed  that  in  the  middle  of  her  work  her 
hands  would  suddenly  drop  weakly  on  her  knees, 
and  her  eyes  be  fixed,  vague  and  immovable, 
downwards  upon  the  floor.  And  Avhen  at  such 
a  moment  I  called  her  by  name,  '  Olyessia,'  or 
put  some  question  to  her,  she  shivered  and 
turned  her  face  slowly  towards  me  :  in  it  was 
reflected  fright  and  the  effort  to  understand  the 
meaning  of  my  words.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to 
me  that  she  was  burdened  and  embarrassed  by 
my  company,  but  I  could  not  reconcile  that  with 


198  THE  WITCH 

the  deep  interest  that  every  remark  and  phrase 
of  mine  used  to  arouse  in  her  only  a  few  days 
ago.  I  could  only  think  that  Olyessia  was  un- 
willing to  forgive  my  patronage  in  the  affair 
with  the  sergeant,  which  so  revolted  her  inde- 
pendent nature.  But  this  solution  did  not 
satisfy  me  either,  and  I  still  asked  myself  from 
whence  did  this  simple  girl,  Avho  had  grown  up 
in  the  midst  of  the  forest,  derive  her  inordinately 
sensitive  pride  ? 

All  this  demanded  explanations  ;  but  Olyessia 
avoided  every  favourable  occasion  for  frank 
conversation.  Our  evening  walks  came  to  an 
end.  In  vain  I  cast  eloquent  imploring  glances 
at  Olyessia  each  day,  when  I  was  on  the  point  of 
leaving  ;  she  made  as  though  she  did  not  under- 
stand their  meaning,  and  in  spite  of  the  old 
woman's  deafness,  her  presence  disturbed  me. 

At  times  I  revolted  against  my  own  weakness 
and  the  habit  which  now  drew  me  every  day  to 
Olyessia.  I  myself  did  not  suspect  with  what 
subtle,  strong,  invisible  threads  my  heart  was 
bound  to  this  fascinating,  incomprehensible  girl. 
As  yet  I  had  no  thought  of  love  ;  but  I  was 
already  living  through  a  disturbing  period  of 
unconscious  anticipation,  full  of  vague  and 
oppressive  sadnesses.  AVherever  I  was,  with 
whatever  I  tried  to  amuse  myself,  my  every 
thought  was  occupied  with  the  image  of  Olyessia, 
my  whole  being  craved  for  her,  and  each  separate 
memory  of  her  most  insignificant  words,  her 
gestures  and  her  smiles,  contracted  my  heart 
with   a  sweet  and  gentle  pain.     But  evening 


THE  WITCH  199 

came  and  I  sat  long  beside  her  on  a  low  rickety- 
little  bench,  to  my  grief  finding  myself  every 
time  more  timid,  more  awkward  and  foolish. 

Once  I  passed  a  whole  day  thus  at  Olyessia's 
side.  I  had  begun  to  feel  unwell  from  the  morn- 
ing onward,  though  I  could  not  clearly  define 
wherein  my  sickness  consisted.  It  grew  worse 
towards  evening.  My  head  grew  heavy  ;  I  felt 
a  dull  incessant  pain  in  the  crown  of  my  head, 
exactly  as  though  some  one  were  pressing  down 
upon  it  with  a  soft,  strong  hand.  My  mouth 
was  parched,  and  an  idle,  languid  weakness 
poured  over  my  whole  body.  My  eyes  pained 
me  just  as  though  I  had  been  staring  fixedly, 
close  to  a  glimmering  point. 

As  I  was  returning  late  in  the  evening,  mid- 
way I  was  suddenly  seized  and  shaken  by  a 
tempestuous  chill.  I  could  hardly  see  the  way 
as  I  went  on  ;  I  was  almost  unconscious  of  where 
I  was  going  ;  I  reeled  like  a  drunken  man,  and 
my  jaws  beat  out  a  quick  loud  tattoo,  each 
against  the  other. 

Till  this  day  I  do  not  know  who  brought  me 
into  the  house.  For  exactly  six  days  I  was 
stricken  by  a  terrible  racking  Polyessian  fever. 
During  the  day  the  sickness  seemed  to  abate, 
and  consciousness  returned  to  me.  Then, 
utterly  exhausted  by  the  disease,  I  could  hardly 
walk  across  the  room,  such  was  the  pain  and 
weakness  of  my  knees  ;  at  each  stronger  move- 
ment the  blood  rushed  in  a  hot  wave  to  my  head, 
and  covered  everything  before  my  eyes  with 
darkness. 


200  THE  WITCH 

In  the  evening,  and  usually  at  about  seven 
o'clock,  the  approach  of  the  disease  over- 
whelmed me  like  a  storm,  and  on  my  bed  I 
passed  a  terrible,  century-long  night,  now 
shaking  with  cold  beneath  the  blankets,  now 
blazing  with  intolerable  heat.  Hardly  had  I 
been  touched  by  a  drowsy  slumber,  when  strange, 
grotesque,  painfully  motley  dreams  began  to 
play  with  my  inflamed  brain.  Every  dream 
was  filled  with  tiny  microscopic  details,  which 
piled  up  and  clutched  each  at  the  other  in  ugly 
chaos.  Now  I  seemed  to  be  unpacking  some 
boxes,  coloured  with  stripes  and  of  fantastic 
form,  taking  small  ones  out  of  the  big,  and  from 
the  small  still  smaller.  I  could  not  by  any 
means  interrupt  the  unending  labour,  although 
it  had  long  been  disgusting  to  me.  Then  there 
flashed  before  my  eyes  with  stupefying  speed 
long  bright  stripes  from  the  wallpaper,  and  with 
amazing  distinctness  I  saw  on  them,  instead 
of  patterns,  whole  garlands  of  human  faces — 
beautiful,  kind,  and  smiling,  then  horribly 
grimacing,  thrusting  out  their  tongues,  showing 
their  teeth,  and  rolling  their  eyes.  Then  I 
entered  into  a  confused  and  extraordinarily  com- 
plicated abstract  dispute  with  Yarmola.  Every 
minute  the  arguments  which  we  brought  up 
against  each  other  became  subtler  and  more  pro- 
found :  separate  words  and  even  individual 
letters  of  words  suddenly  took  on  a  mysterious 
and  unfathomable  meaning,  and  at  the  same 
time  I  was  seized  by  a  revolting  terror  of  the 
unknown,  unnatural  force  that  wound  out  one 


THE  WITCH  201 

monstrous  sophism  after  another  outof  my  brain, 
and  would  not  let  me  break  off  the  dispute  which 
had  long  been  loathsome  to  me,  .  .  . 

It  was  like  a  seething  whirlwind  cf  human  and 
animal  figures,  landscapes,  things  of  the  most 
wonderful  forms  and  colours,  words  and  phrases 
whose  meaning  was  apprehended  by  every 
sense.  .  .  .  But  the  strange  thing  was  that  I 
never  lost  sight  of  a  bright  regular  circle  re- 
flected on  to  the  ceiling  by  the  lamp  with  the 
scorched  green  shade.  And  somehow  I  knew 
that  within  the  indistinct  line  of  that  quiet 
circle  was  concealed  a  silent,  monotonous, 
mysterious,  terrible  life,  yet  more  awful  and 
oppressive  than  the  mad  chaos  of  my  dreams. 

Then  I  алуоке,  or  more  truly  did  not  awake, 
but  suddenly  forced  myself  to  sit  up.  Conscious- 
ness almost  returned  to  me.  I  understood  that 
I  was  lying  in  bed,  that  I  was  ill,  that  I  had  just 
been  in  delirium,  but  the  bright  circle  on  the 
ceiling  still  terrified  me  by  its  hidden,  ominous 
menace.  With  weak  hands  I  slowly  reached 
for  the  watch,  looked  at  it,  and  saw  with  melan- 
choly perplexity  that  all  the  endless  sequence  of 
my  ghastly  dreams  had  taken  no  longer  than 
two  or  three  minutes,  '  My  God,  will  the  dawn 
ever  come  ?  '  I  thought  in  despair,  tossing  my 
head  over  the  hot  pillows  and  feeling  my  short 
heavy  breathing  burn  my  lips.  .  .  .  But  again  a 
slight  drowsiness  possessed  me,  and  again  my 
brain  became  the  sport  of  a  motley  nightmare, 
and  again  within  two  minutes  I  woke,  racked  by 
a  mortal  ansuish. 


202  THE  WITCH 

In  six  days  my  vigorous  constitution,  aided  by 
quinine  and  an  infusion  of  buckthorn,  overcame 
my  disease.  I  rose  from  my  bed  completely 
crushed,  with  difficulty  standing  upright  on  my 
legs.  But  my  convalescence  passed  with  eager 
quickness.  In  my  head,  weary  with  six  days' 
feverish  delirium,  I  felt  now  an  idle,  pleasant 
absence  of  any  thought  at  all.  My  appetite 
returned  with  double  force,  and  hourly  my  body 
gathered  strength,  in  each  moment  imbibing  its 
particle  of  health  and  of  the  joy  of  life.  And 
with  that  a  new  and  stronger  craving  came  upon 
me  for  the  forest  and  the  lonely,  tumble-down 
hut.  But  my  nerves  had  not  yet  recovered,  and 
every  time  that  I  called  up  Olyessia's  face  and 
voice  in  my  memory,  I  wanted  to  cry. 


THE  WITCH  208 


Only  five  more  days  had  passed,  when  I  was  so 
much  recovered  that  I  reached  the  chicken- 
legged  hut  on  foot  without  the  least  fatigue. 
As  I  stepped  on  the  threshold  my  heart  palpi- 
tated with  breathless  fear.  I  had  not  seen 
Olyessia  for  almost  two  weeks,  and  I  now  per- 
ceived how  near  and  dear  she  was  to  me.  Hold- 
ing the  latch  of  the  door,  I  waited  some  seconds, 
breathing  with  difficulty.  In  my  irresolution  I 
even  shut  my  eyes  for  some  time  before  I  could 
push  the  door  open.  .  .  . 

It  is  always  impossible  to  analyse  impressions 
like  those  which  followed  my  entrance.  .  .  . 
Can  one  remember  the  words  uttered  in  the  first 
moment  of  meeting  between  a  mother  and  son, 
husband  and  wife,  or  lover  and  lover  ?  The 
simplest,  most  ordinary,  even  ridiculous  words 
are  said,  if  they  were  put  down  exactly  upon 
paper.  But  each  word  is  opportune  and  in- 
finitely dear  because  it  is  uttered  by  the  dearest 
voice  in  all  the  world. 

I  remember — very  clearly  I  remember — only 
one  thing  :  Olyessia' s  beautiful  pale  face  turned 
quickly  towards  me,  and  on  that  beautiful  face, 
so  new  to  me,  were  in  one  second  reflected,  in 
changing  succession,  perplexity,  fear,  anxiety, 
and  a  tender  radiant  smile  of  love.  .  .  .  The  old 


204  THE  WITCH 

woman  was  mumbling  something,  clatter- 
ing round  me,  but  I  did  not  hear  her  greet- 
ings. Olyessia's  voice  reached  me  like  a  sweet 
music  : 

'  What  has  been  the  matter  with  you  ?  You  've 
been  ill  ?  Ah,  how  thin  you  've  grown,  my 
poor  darling  ! ' 

For  a  long  while  I  could  make  no  answer,  and 
we  stood  silent  face  to  face,  clasping  hands  and 
looking  straight  into  the  depths  of  each  other's 
eyes,  happily.  Those  few  silent  seconds  I  have 
always  considered  the  happiest  in  my  life :  never, 
never  before  or  since,  have  I  tasted  such  pure, 
complete,  all-absorbing  ecstasy.  And  how  much 
I  read  in  Olyessia's  big  dark  eyes  ! — the  excite- 
ment of  the  meeting,  reproach  for  my  long 
absence,  and  a  passionate  declaration  of  love. 
In  that  look  I  felt  that  Olyessia  gave  me  her 
whole  being  joyfully  without  doubt  or  reserva- 
tion. 

She  was  the  first  to  break  the  spell,  pointing 
to  Manuilikha  with  a  slow  movement  of  her  eye- 
lids. We  sat  down  side  by  side,  and  Olyessia 
began  to  ask  me  anxiously  for  the  details  of  my 
illness,  the  medicines  I  had  taken,  what  the 
doctor  had  said  and  thought — he  came  twice 
to  see  me  from  the  little  town ;  she  made 
me  tell  about  the  doctor  time  after  time,  and 
I  could  catch  a  fleeting,  sarcastic  smile  on  her 
lips. 

'  Oh,  why  didn't  I  know  that  you  were  ill  !  ' 
she  exclaimed  with  impatient  regret.  '  I  would 
have  set  you  on  your  feet  again  in  a  single  day. 


THE  WITCH  205 

.  .  .  How  can  they  be  trusted,  when  they  don't 
understand  anything  at  all,  nothing  at  all  ? 
Why  didn't  you  send  for  me  ?  ' 

I  was  at  a  loss  for  an  answer. 

'  You  see,  Olyessia  ...  it  happened  so 
suddenly  .  .  .  besides,  I  was  afraid  to  trouble 
you.  Toлvards  the  end  you  had  become  strange 
towards  me,  as  though  you  were  angry  with  me, 
or  bored.  .  .  .  Olyessia,'  I  added,  lowering  my 
voice,  '  we  've  got  ever  so  much  to  say  to  each 
other,  ever  so  much  .  .  .  just  we  two  .  .  .  you 
understand  ?  ' 

She  quietly  cast  down  her  eyes  in  token  of 
consent,  and  then  whispered  quickly,  looking 
round  timidly  at  her  grandmother  : 

'  Yes.  ...  I  want  to,  as  well  .  .  .  later  .  .  . 
wait ' 

As  soon  as  the  sun  began  to  set,  Olyessia  began 
to  urge  me  to  go  home. 

'  Make  haste,  be  quick  and  get  ready,'  she  said, 
pulling  my  hand  from  the  bench.  '  If  the  damp 
catches  you  now,  the  fever  will  be  on  you  again, 
immediately.' 

'  Where  are  you  going,  Olyessia  ?  '  Manuilikha 
asked  suddenly,  seeing  that  her  granddaughter 
liad  thrown  a  large  grey  shawl  hurriedly  over 
her  head. 

'  I  'm  going  part  of  the  way  with  him,' 
answered  Olyessia. 

She  said  the  words  with  indifference,  looking 
not  at  her  grandmother  but  at  the  window  ;  but 
in  her  voice  I  could  detect  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible note  of  irritation. 


206  THE  WITCH 

'  You  're  really  going  ?  '  the  old  woman  once 
more  asked,  meaningly. 

Olyessia's  eyes  flashed,  and  she  stared  steadily 
into  Manuilikha's  face. 

'  Yes,  I  am  going,'  she  replied  proudly.  '  We 
talked  it  out  and  talked  it  out  long  ago.  .  .  . 
It 's  my  affair,  and  my  own  responsibility.' 

'  Ah,  you '  the  old  woman  exclaimed  in 

reproach  and  annoyance.  She  wanted  to  add 
more,  but  only  waved  her  hand  and  dragged  her 
trembling  legs  away  into  the  corner,  and  began 
to  busy  herself  with  a  basket,  groaning. 

I  understood  that  the  brief  unpleasant  con- 
versation which  I  had  just  witnessed  was  a  con- 
tinuation of  a  long  series  of  mutual  quarrels  and 
bursts  of  anger.  As  I  walked  to  the  forest  at 
Olyessia's  side,  I  asked  her  : 

'  Granny  doesn't  want  you  to  go  for  a  walk 
with  me,  does  she  ?  ' 

Olyessia  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  vexation. 

'  Please,  don't  take  any  notice  of  it.  .  .  .  No, 
she  doesn't  like  it.  .  .  .  Surely  I  'm  free  to  do 
as  I  like  ?  ' 

Suddenly  I  conceived  an  irresistible  desire  to 
reproach  Olyessia  with  her  former  sternness. 

'  But  you  could  have  done  it  before  my  illness 
as  well.  .  .  .  Only  then  you  didn't  want  to  be 
alone  with  me.  ...  I  thought,  every  evening  I 
thought,  perhaps  you  would  come  with  me  again. 
But  you  used  to  pay  no  attention  ;  you  were 
so  unresponsive,  and  cross.  .  .  .  How  you  tor- 
mented me,  Olyessia  !  .  .  .' 

'  Don't,    darling.    .    .    .    Forget  it,    .    .    .' 


THE  WITCTT  207 

Olyessia  entreated  with  a  tender  apology  in 
her  voice. 

'  No,  I  'm  not  saying  it  to  blame  you.  It  just 
slipped  out.  Now,  I  understand  why  it  was. 
.  .  .  But  before — it 's  funny  to  talk  about  it 
even  now — I  thought  you  were  offended  because 
of  the  sergeant.  The  thought  made  me  terribly 
sad.  I  couldn't  help  thinking  that  you  con- 
sidered me  so  remote  and  foreign  to  you,  that 
you  found  it  hard  to  accept  a  simple  kindness 
from  me.  .  .  .It  was  very  bitter  to  me.  ...  I 
never  even  suspected  that  granny  was  the  cause 
of  it  all,  Olyessia.' 

Olyessia's  face  suddenly  flamed  bright  red. 

'  But  it  wasn't  granny  at  all.  ...  It  was  me. 
I  didn't  want  it,  myself,'  she  exclaimed  with  a 
passionate  challenge. 

'  But  луЬу  didn't  you  want  it,  Olyessia, 
why  ?  '  I  asked.  My  voice  broke  for  agitation, 
and  I  caught  her  by  the  hand  and  made  her  stop. 
We  were  just  in  the  middle  of  a  long  narrow 
path,  straight  as  an  arrow  through  the  forest. 
On  either  side  we  were  surrounded  by  tall 
slender  pines,  that  formed  a  gigantic  corridor, 
receding  into  the  distance,  vaulted  with  fragrant 
interwoven  branches.  The  bare  peeled  trunks 
Avere  tinged  with  the  purple  glow  of  the  burnt- 
out  red  of  the  evening  sky. 

'  Tell  me  why,  Olyessia,  why  ? '  I  whis- 
pered again,  pressing  her  hand  closer  and 
closer. 

'  I  could  not  ...  I  was  afraid,'  Olyessia  said 
so  low  that  I  could  hardly  hear.     '  I  thought  it 


208  THE  WITCH 

was  possible  to  escape  one's  destiny.  .  .  .  But, 
now  ,  .  .  now.' 

Her  breath  failed  her,  as  though  there  were  no 
air  ;  and  suddenly  her  hands  twined  quick  and 
vehement  about  my  neck,  and  my  lips  were 
sweetly  burnt  by  Olyessia's  quick  trembling 
whisper : 

'  But  it 's  all  the  same,  now  ...  all  the 
same  !  .  .  .  Because  I  love  you,  my  dear,  my 
joy,  my  h)eloved  ! ' 

She  pressed  closer  and  closer  to  me,  and  I  could 
feel  how  her  strong,  vigorous,  fervent  body 
pulsed  beneath  my  hands,  how  quickly  her  heart 
beat  against  my  chest.  Her  passionate  kisses 
poured  like  intoxicating  wine  into  my  head,  still 
weak  лvith  disease,  and  I  began  to  lose  my  hold 
upon  myself. 

'  Olyessia,  for  God's  sake,  don't  .  .  .  leave 
me,'  I  said,  trying  to  unclasp  her  hands.  '  Now 
I  am  afraid.  .  .  .  I  'm  afraid  of  myself.  .  .  Let 
me  go,  Olyessia.' 

She  raised  her  head.  Her  face  was  all  lighted 
with  a  slow,  languid  smile. 

'  Don't  be  afraid,  my  darling,'  she  said  with 
an  indescribable  expression  of  tender  passion 
and  touching  fearlessness.  '  I  shall  never  re- 
proach you,  never  be  jealous  of  any  one.  .  .  . 
Tell  me  only,  do  you  love  me  ?  ' 

'  I  love  you,  Olyessia.  I  loved  you  long  ago, 
and  I  love  you  passionately.  But  .  .  .  don't 
kiss  me  any  more.  ...  I  grow  weak,  my  head 
swims,  I  can't  answer  for  myself.  .  .  .' 

Her  lips  were  once  more  pressed  to  mine  in  a 


THE  WITCH  209 

long,  painful  sweetness.     I  did  not  hear,  rather 
I  divined  her  words. 

'  Then  don't  be  afraid.  Don't  think  of  any- 
thing besides.  .  .  .  To-day  is  ours ;  no  one  can 
take  it  from  us.' 

And  the  whole  night  melted  into  a  magical 
fairy  tale.  The  moon  rose,  and  its  radiance 
poured  fantastically  in  motley  and  mysterious 
colours  over  the  forest.  It  lay  amid  the  dark- 
ness in  pale  blue  stains  upon  the  gnarled  tree- 
trunks,  on  the  bent  branches  and  the  soft  carpet 
of  moss.  The  high  birch-trunks  showed  clear 
and  keenly  Avhite,  and  it  seemed  that  a  silvery 
transparent  veil  of  gauze  had  been  thrown  over 
the  thin  leaves.  In  places  the  light  could  by 
no  means  penetrate  the  thick  canopy  of  pine 
branches.  There  was  complete,  impenetrable 
darkness,  save  only  that  in  the  middle  a  ray 
slipped  in  unknown  from  somewhere  and 
suddenly  shone  brightly  on  a  long  row  of  trees, 
casting  a  straight  пагголу  path  on  the  earth,  as 
bright  and  trim  and  beautiful  as  a  path  fashioned 
by  fairies  for  the  triumphant  procession  of 
Oberon  and  Titania.  And  we  walked  with  our 
arms  enlocked  through  this  vivid,  smiling  fairy- 
tale, without  a  single  word,  under  the  weight  of  our 
happiness  and  the  dreadful  silence  of  the  night. 

'  Darling,  I  've  forgotten  quite  that  you  must 
hurry  home,'  Olyessia  suddenly  remembered. 
'  Wliat  a  wicked  girl  I  am  !  You  're  only  just 
recovering  from  your  illness  and  I  've  kept  you 
all  this  while  in  the  forest.' 


210  THE  WITCH 

I  kissed  her,  and  threw  back  the  shawl  from 
her  thick  dark  hair,  and  asked  her  in  the  softest 
whisper,  bending  to  her  ear  : 

'  You  don't  regret  it,  Olyessia  ?  You  don't 
repent  ?  ' 

She  shook  her  head  slowly. 

'  No,  no.  .  .  .  Come  what  may,  I  shan't 
regret.  ...  I  am  so  happy  ! ' 

'  Is  something  bound  to  happen,  then  ?  ' 

There  appeared  in  her  eyes  a  flash  of  the 
mystical  terror  I  had  grown  to  recognise. 

'  Yes,  it  is  certain.  You  remember  I  told  you 
about  the  queen  of  clubs.  That  queen  of  clubs 
is  me,  myself;  the  misfortune  that  the  cards 
told  of  will  happen  to  me.  .  .  .  You  know  I 
thought  of  asking  you  not  to  come  and  see  us 
any  more.  But  then  you  fell  ill,  and  I  never  saw 
you  for  nearly  a  fortnight.  ...  I  was  so  anxious 
and  sad  for  you  that  I  felt  I  could  have  given 
the  whole  world  to  be  with  you,  just  one  little 
minute.  Then  I  thought  that  I  would  not  give 
up  my  happiness,  whatever  should  come  of 
it.  .  .  .' 

'  It 's  true,  Olyessia.  That 's  how  it  was  with 
me,  too,'  I  said,  touching  her  forehead  with  my 
lips.  '  I  never  knew  that  I  loved  you  until  I 
parted  from  you.  It  seems  that  man  was  right 
who  said  that  parting  to  love  is  like  wind  to  a 
fire  :  it  blows  out  a  small  one,  and  makes  a  large 
one  blaze.' 

'  What  did  you  say  ?  Say  it  again,  again, 
please.'     Olyessia  was  interested. 

I  repeated  the  words  again.     I  do  not  know 


^ 


THE  WITCH  211 

whose  they  are.  Olyessia  mused  over  them,  and 
I  could  see  by  the  movement  of  her  hps  that  she 
was  saying  the  words  over  to  herself. 

I  looked  closely  into  her  pale  face,  thrown 
back,  her  large  black  eyes  with  glimmering 
bright  lights  лvithin  them  from  the  moon  ;  and 
with  a  sudden  chill  a  vague  foreboding  of 
imminent  calamity  crept  into  my  soul. 


212  THE  WITCH 


XI 

The  naive  enchanting  tale  of  our  love  lasted  for 
nearly  a  month.  To  this  day  there  live  with  un- 
diminished potency  in  my  soul  Olyessia's  beauti- 
ful face  and  those  blazing  twilights,  those  dewy 
mornings  fragrant  with  lilies  and  honey,  full  of 
vigorous  freshness  and  the  sonorous  noise  of 
birds,  those  hot,  languid,  idle  days  of  June.  In 
that  time  neither  weariness,  nor  fatigue,  nor  my 
eternal  passion  for  a  wandering  life  ever  touched 
my  soul.  I  was  a  pagan  god  or  a  strong,  young 
animal,  delighting  in  the  light  and  warmth  and 
conscious  joy  of  life,  and  in  calm,  pure,  sensuous 
love. 

After  my  recovery  old  Manuilikha  became  so 
intolerably  snappish,  met  me  with  such  undis- 
guised malice,  and,  while  I  was  sitting  in  the 
hut,  moved  the  pots  on  the  stove  with  such 
noisy  exasperation,  that  Olyessia  and  I  preferred 
to  meet  in  the  forest  every  evening.  .  .  .  And 
the  stately  green  beauty  of  the  pine-forest  was 
the  precious  setting  which  adorned  our  tranquil 
love. 

Every  day  with  deeper  and  deeper  wonder  I 
discovered  that  Olyessia,  the  child  of  the  forest 
wlio  could  not  even  read,  showed  in  many  things 
of  life  a  delicate  sensitiveness  and  a  peculiar 
native  refinement.     There  are  always  horrible 


THE  WITCH  213 

sides  to  love,  in  its  direct  and  coarser  meaning, 
which  are  a  torment  and  a  shame  to  nervous 
artistic  natures.  But  Olyessia  could  avoid  them 
with  such  naive  chastity  that  our  love  was  never 
once  spoiled  by  a  single  ugly  thought,  or  one 
moment  of  cynicism. 

Meanwhile  the  time  of  my  departure  was 
approaching.  To  tell  the  truth,  all  my  official 
business  at  Perebrod  was  already  at  an  end  ;  but 
I  had  deliberately  delayed  my  return  to  town. 
I  had  not  yet  breathed  a  word  of  this  to  Olyessia, 
for  I  was  afraid  even  to  imagine  to  myself  how 
she  would  receive  the  news  that  I  must  go  away. 
Habit  had  taken  roots  too  deep  in  me.  To  see 
Olyessia  every  day,  to  hear  her  dear  voice  and 
musical  laughter,  to  feel  the  tender  beauty  of  her 
caresses,  had  come  to  be  more  than  a  necessity 
for  me.  On  tlie  rare  days  when  stress  of  weather 
prevented  us  from  meeting  I  felt  exactly  as 
though  I  had  been  lost,  and  deprived  of  what 
was  chief  and  all-important  in  my  life.  Every 
occupation  was  tedious  and  useless  to  me,  and 
my  whole  being  craved  for  the  forest,  the 
warmth  and  the  light,  and  Olyessia' s  dear 
familiar  face. 

The  idea  of  marrying  Olyessia  entered  my 
head  more  and  more  insistently.  At  first  it 
had  only  presented  itself  to  me  but  rarely  as  a 
possible,  and  in  extremities  an  honest,  issue  to 
our  relationship.  Only  one  thing  alarmed  and 
checked  me.  I  dared  not  even  imagine  to  myself 
what  Olyessia  would  be  like,  fashionably  dressed, 
chatting  to  the  wives  of  my  colleagues  in  the 


214  THE  WITCH 

drawing-room,  snatched  away  from  the  fascina- 
ting setting  of  the  old  forest,  full  of  legends  and 
mysterious  powers. 

But  the  nearer  came  the  time  for  me  to  de- 
part, the  greater  was  the  anguish  and  horror  of 
loneliness  which  possessed  me.  My  resolution 
to  marry  gre\v  daily  stronger  in  my  soul,  and 
finally  I  could  no  longer  see  it  as  a  bold  defiance 
of  society.  '  Decent,  Avell-educated  men  marry 
dressmakers  and  servant-maids,'  I  consoled 
myself,  '  and  they  live  happily  together,  and 
to  the  day  of  their  death  they  thank  the  fate 
which  urged  them  to  this  resolution.  Shall  I 
be  unhappier  than  the  others  ?  ' 

Once  in  mid-June,  towards  evening,  I  was 
waiting  for  Olyessia,  according  to  my  habit,  at 
the  turn  of  a  narrow  forest  path  among  the 
flowering  лvhitethorn  bushes.  When  she  was 
far  in  the  distance  I  made  out  the  easy,  quick 
sound  of  her  steps. 

'  How  are  you,  my  darling  ?  '  Olyessia  said, 
embracing  me  and  breathing  heavily.  '  Have 
I  kept  you  waiting  too  long  ?  ...  It  was  so 
hard  to  get  away  at  the  last.  .  .  .  Fighting 
with  granny  all  the  while.' 

'  Isn't  she  reconciled  yet  ?  ' 

'  Never  !  She  says  to  me  :  "  He  '11  ruin  you. 
.  .  ,  He  '11  play  with  you  at  his  pleasure  and 
then  desert  you.  .  .  .  He  doesn't  love  you  at 
all "  ' 

'  So  that 's  what  she  says  about  me  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  darling,  about  j^u.  .  .  .  But  I  don't 
believe  a  single  word  of  it  all  the  same.  .  .  .' 


THE  WITCH  215 

'  Does  she  know  everything  ?  ' 

'  I  couldn't  say  for  sure.  .  .  .  But  I  believe 
she  knows.  ...  I  've  never  spoken  to  her  about 
it — she  guesses.  But  what 's  the  good  of  think- 
ing about  that.  .  .  .  Come.' 

She  plucked  a  t-wig  of  whitethorn  with  a 
superb  spray  of  blossom  and  thrust  it  into  her 
hair.  We  walked  slowly  along  the  path  which 
showed  faintly  rosy  beneath  the  evening  sun. 

The  night  before  I  had  decided  that  I  would 
speak  out  at  all  costs  this  evening.  But  a 
strange  timidity  lay  like  a  weight  upon  my 
tongue.  '  If  I  tell  Olyessia  that  I  am  going 
away  and  going  to  marry  her,'  I  thought,  '  will 
she  not  think  that  my  proposal  is  only  made 
to  soothe  the  pain  of  the  first  wound  ?  .  .  .  But 
I  'U  begin  the  moment  we  reach  that  maple  with 
the  peeled  trunk,'  I  fixed  in  my  mind.  We  were 
already  on  a  level  with  the  maple.  Pale  with 
agitation  I  had  begun  to  draw  a  deep  breath  to 
begin  to  speak,  when  my  courage  suddenly 
failed,  and  ended  in  a  nervous  painful  beating 
of  my  heart  and  a  chill  on  my  lips.  '  Twenty- 
seven  is  my  number,'  I  thought  a  few  moments 
later.  '  I  '11  count  up  to  twenty-seven,  and 
then  !  .  .  .'  I  began  to  count  to  myself,  but 
when  I  reached  twenty-seven  I  felt  that  the 
resolution  had  not  yet  matured  in  me.  '  No,' 
I  said  to  myself,  '  I  'd  better  go  on  counting 
to  sixty  .  .  .  that  will  make  just  a  minute,  and 
then  лvithout  fail,  without  fail ' 

'  What 's  the  matter  with  you  to-day  ?  ' 
Olyessia  suddenly  asked.     '  You  're  thinking  of 


216  THE  WITCH 

something  unpleasant.  What  has  happened  to 
you?' 

Then  I  began  to  speak,  but  with  a  tone  re- 
pugnant to  myself,  with  an  assumed  unnatural 
carelessness,  just  as  though  it  were  a  trifling 
affair. 

'  Yes,  it  really  is  rather  unpleasant.  .  .  .  You 
have  guessed  it,  Olyessia.  .  .  .  You  see,  my 
service  here  is  finished,  and  the  authorities  have 
summoned  me  back  to  town.' 

I  took  a  quick  side-glance  at  Olyessia.  The 
colour  died  away  from  her  face  and  her  lips 
quivered.  She  said  not  a  Avord  in  reply.  Some 
minutes  I  walked  in  silence  by  her  side.  The 
grasshoppers  chattered  noisily  in  the  grass,  and 
the  strained  monotonous  note  of  a  corncrake 
sounded  somewhere  afar. 

'  Of  course  you  understand,  yourself,  Olyessia,' 
I  again  began,  '  that  it 's  no  good  my  staying 
here,  besides  there  's  nowhere  to  stay.  .  .  .  And 
I  can't  neglect  my  duty ' 

'  No  .  .  .  why  .  .  .  what 's  the  good  of  talk- 
ing ?  '  Olyessia  said,  in  a  voice  outwardly  calm, 
but  so  deep  and  lifeless  that  terror  seized  me. 
'If  it 's  your  duty,  of  course  .  .  .  vou  must 
go ' 

She  stopped  by  the  tree  and  leaned  against  the 
trunk,  her  face  utterly  pale,  her  hands  hanging 
limply  by  her  body,  a  poignant  pitiful  smile  on 
her  lips.  Her  pallor  frightened  me.  I  rushed 
to  her  and  pressed  her  hands  vehemently. 

'  What 's  the  matter,  Olyessia  ,  .  .  darling  !  ' 

'  Nothing  .  .  .  forgive  me.  ...  It  will  pass 


THE  WITCH  217 

— now.  .  .  .  My  head  is  dizzy.'  She  controlled 
herself  with  an  effort  and  went  on,  leaving  her 
hand  in  mine. 

'  You  're  thinking  ill  of  me,  Olyessia,'  I  said 
reproachfully.  '  You  should  be  ashamed.  Do 
you  think,  as  well,  that  I  could  cast  you  off  and 
leave  you  ?  No,  my  darling.  That 's  why  I 
began  this  conversation — so  that  you  should  go 
this  very  day  to  your  grandmother  and  tell  her 
you  will  be  my  wife.' 

Quite  contrary  to  my  expectation,  Olyessia 
showed  hardly  a  trace  of  surprise  at  my  words. 

'  Your  wife  ?  '  She  shook  her  head  slowly  and 
sadly.     '  No,  it 's  impossible,  Vanichka  dear.' 

'  Why,  Olyessia  ?     Why  ?  ' 

'  No,  no.  .  .  .  You  can  see  yourself,  it 's  funny 
to  think  of  it  even.  What  kind  of  wife  could 
I  be  for  you  ?  You  are  a  gentleman,  clever, 
educated — and  I  ?  I  can't  even  read.  I  don't 
know  how  to  behave.  You  will  be  ashamed  to 
be  my  husband.   .   .   .' 

'  What  nonsense,  Olyessia,'  I  replied  fervently. 
'  In  six  months  you  won't  know  yourself.  You 
don't  even  suspect  the  natural  wit  and  genius  for 
observation  you  have  in  you.  We  '11  read  all 
sorts  of  good  books  together  ;  we  '11  make  friends 
with  decent,  clever  people  ;  we  '11  see  the  whole 
wide  world  together,  Olyessia.  We  '11  go  to- 
gether arm  in  arm  just  like  we  are  now  until  old 
age,  to  the  grave  itself  ;  and  I  shan't  be  ashamed 
of  you,  but  proud  and  grateful.  .  .  .' 

Olyessia  answered  my  passionate  speech  with 
a  grateful  clasp  of  the  hand,  but  she  persisted  : 


218  THE  WITCH 

'  That 's  not  everything.  .  .  .  Perhaps  you 
don't  know,  yet.  ...  I  never  told  you.  ...  I 
haven't  a  father.  .  .  .  I  'm  illegitimate.   .   .   .' 

'  Don't,  Olyessia.  .  .  .  That 's  the  last  thing  I 
care  about.  What  have  I  got  to  do  with  your 
family,  when  you  yourself  are  more  precious  to 
me  than  my  father  and  mother,  than  the  whole 
world  even  ?  No,  this  is  all  trifling — just 
excuses  !  .  .  .' 

Olyessia  pressed  her  shoulder  against  mine 
with  a  gentle  submissive  caress. 

'  Darling !  .  .  .  You  'd  better  not  have  begun 
to  talk  at  all.  .  .  .  You  are  young,  free.  .  .  . 
Would  I  ever  dare  to  tie  j^u  hand  and  foot  for 
all  your  life  ?  .  .  .  What  if  you  fall  in  love  with 
another  woman  afterwards  ?  Then  you  will 
despise  me,  and  curse  the  day  and  hour  when  I 
agreed  to  marry  you.  Don't  be  angry,  darling  ! ' 
she  cried  out  in  entreaty,  seeing  by  my  face  that 
the  words  had  offended  me,  '  I  don't  want  to 
hurt  you.  .  .  .  I  'm  only  thinking  of  your  happi- 
ness. And  you  've  forgotten  granny.  Well,  ask 
yourself,  could  I  leave  her  alone  ?  ' 

'  Why  .  .  .  she  '11  come  with  us,  too.'  (I 
confess  the  idea  of  granny  made  me  uneasy.) 
'  And  even  if  she  didn't  want  to  live  with  us  .  .  . 
there  are  houses  in  every  town  .  .  .  called  alms- 
houses, where  such  old  women  are  given  rest, 
and  carefully  looked  after.' 

'  No,  what  are  you  saying  ?  She  will  never 
go  away  from  the  forest.    She  is  afraid  of  people.' 

'  Well,  think  of  something  better  yourself, 
Olyessia.     You  must  choose  between  me  and 


THE  WITCH  219 

granny.  But  I  tell  you  this  one  thing — tliat 
life  will  be  hideous  to  me  without  you.' 

'  You  darling  ! '  Olyessia  said  with  profound 
tenderness.  '  Just  for  those  лvords  I  am  grate- 
ful. .  .  .  You  have  warmed  my  heart.  .  .  .  But 
still  I  shan't  marry  you.  ...  I  rather  go  with 
you  without  being  married,  if  you  don't  send  me 
away.  .  .  .  But  don't  be  in  a  hurry,  please  don't 
hurry  me.  Give  me  a  day  or  two.  I  '11  think  it 
over  well.  .  .  .  Besides,  I  must  speak  to  granny, 
as  well.' 

'  Tell  me,  Olyessia,'  I  asked,  for  the  shadow 
of  a  new  thought  was  upon  my  mind.  '  Perhaps 
you  are  still  .  .  .  afraid  of  the  church  ?  ' 

Perhaps  I  should  have  begun  with  this 
question.  Almost  every  day  I  used  to  quarrel 
with  Olyessia  over  it,  trying  to  shake  her  belief 
in  the  imaginary  curse  that  hung  over  her  family 
for  the  possession  of  magic  powers.  There  is 
something  of  the  preacher  essential  in  every 
Russian  intellectual.  It  is  in  our  blood  ;  it  has 
been  instilled  by  the  whole  of  Russian  literature 
in  the  last  generations.  Who  could  say  but,  if 
Olyessia  had  had  a  profound  belief,  and  strictly 
observed  the  fasts,  and  never  missed  a  single 
service,  it  is  quite  possible  I  луоиШ  have  begun 
to  speak  ironically  (but  only  a  little,  for  I  was 
always  a  believer  myself)  of  her  piety  and  to 
develop  a  critical  curiosity  of  mind  in  her.  But 
with  a  firm,  naive  conviction  she  professed  her 
communion  Avith  the  powers  of  darkness,  and 
her  estrangement  from  God,  of  whom  she  was 
afraid  to  speak. 


220  THE  WITCH 

In  vain  I  tried  to  shake  Olyessia's  superstition. 
All  my  logical  arguments,  all  my  mockery, 
sometimes  rude  and  wicked,  were  broken  against 
her  submissive  confidence  in  her  mysterious, 
fatal  vocation. 

'  You  're  afraid  of  the  church,  Olyessia  ?  '  I 
repeated. 

She  bent  her  head  in  silence. 

'  You  think  God  will  not  accept  you  ?  '  I  con- 
tinued with  growing  passion.  '  That  He  will  not 
have  mercy  on  you ;  He  who,  though  He  com- 
mands millions  of  angels,  yet  came  down  to 
earth  and  suffered  a  horrible  infamous  death  for 
the  salvation  of  all  men  ?  He  who  did  not 
disdain  the  repentance  of  the  worst  woman, 
and  promised  a  highway  murderer  that  on 
that  very  day  he  would  sit  together  with  Him 
in  Paradise  ? ' 

This  interpretation  of  mine  was  already 
familiar  to  Olyessia  ;  but  this  time  she  did  not 
even  listen  to  me.  With  a  quick  movement  she 
took  off  her  shawl,  rolled  it  up  and  flung  it  in  my 
face.  A  struggle  began.  I  tried  to  snatch  her 
nosegay  of  whitethorn  away.  She  resisted,  fell 
on  the  ground  and  dragged  me  down  with  her, 
laughing  joyfully  and  holding  out  to  me  her 
darling  lips,  moist  and  opened  by  her  quick 
breathing.  .  .  . 

Late  at  night,  when  we  had  said  good-bye  and 
were  already  a  good  distance  away  from  each 
other,  I  suddenly  heard  Olyessia's  voice  behind 
me  :  '  Vanichka  !  Wait  a  moment.  ...  I 
Avant  to  tell  you  something.' 


THE  WITCH  221 

I  turned  and  went  to  meet  her.  Olyessia 
quickly  ran  up  to  me.  Already  the  thin  notched 
silver  sickle  of  the  young  moon  stood  in  the  sky, 
and  by  its  light  I  saw  that  Olyessia' s  eyes  were 
full  of  big  brimming  tears. 

'  What  is  it,  Olyessia  ?  '  I  asked  anxiously. 

She  seized  my  hands  and  began  to  kiss  them 
in  turn. 

'  Darling  .  .  .  how  sweet  you  are  !  How 
good  you  are  ! '  she  said  with  a  trembling  voice. 
'  I  was  just  Avalking  and  thinking  how  much  you 
love  me.  .  .  .  You  see  I  лvant  aAvi'ully  to  do 
something  that  you  would  like  very,  very  much.' 

'  Olyessia  .  .  .  my  precious  girl,  be  calm ' 

'  Tell  me,'  she  continued,  '  луоиШ  you  be  very 
glad  if  I  went  to  church  some  time  ?  Tell  me 
the  truth,  the  real  truth.' 

I  was  thinking.  A  superstitious  thought 
suddenly  crossed  my  mind  that  some  misfortune 
луоиЫ  come  of  it. 

'  Why  don't  you  answer  ?  Tell  me  quickly  ; 
would  you  be  glad,  or  is  it  all  the  same  to  you  ?  ' 

'  How  can  I  say,  Olyessia  ?  '  I  began  doubt- 
fully. '  Well,  yes.  ...  I  would  be  glad.  I  've 
said  many  times  that  a  man  may  disbelieve, 
doubt,  even  laugh  finally.  But  a  woman  .  .  . 
a  woman  must  be  religious  without  any  sopliisti- 
cation.  I  always  feel  something  touching, 
feminine,  beautiful  in  the  simple  tender  confi- 
dence with  which  a  woman  surrenders  herself 
to  the  protection  of  God.' 

I  was  silent ;  neither  did  Olyessia  make  any 
answer,  but  nestled  her  head  in  my  bosom. 


222  THE  WITCH 

'  Why  did  you  ask  me  this  ?  '    I  was  curious. 

She  started  suddenly. 

'  Nothing.  ...  I  just  asked.  .  .  .  Don't  take 
any  notice.  Now,  good-bye,  darling.  Come 
to-morrow.' 

She  disappeared.  I  stood  still  for  a  long 
while,  looking  into  the  darkness,  listening  eagerly 
to  the  quick  steps  going  away  from  me.  A 
sudden  dread  foreboding  seized  me.  I  had  an 
irresistible  desire  to  run  after  Olyessia,  to  take 
hold  of  her  and  ask,  implore,  demand,  if  need  be, 
that  she  should  not  go  to  church.  But  I  checked 
the  sudden  impulse,  and  I  remember  that  as  I 
Avent  my  way  I  even  said  aloud  : 

'  It  seems  to  me,  my  dear  Vanichka,  that  the 
superstition  's  touched  you  as  well.' 

My  God,  why  did  I  not  listen  then  to  the  dim 
voice  of  the  heart,  which — I  now  believe  it  im- 
plicitly— never  errs  in  its  momentary  mysterious 
presentiments  ? 


THE  WITCH  223 


XII 

The  day  after  this  meeting  was  Whitsuntide, 
which  that  year  fell  on  the  day  of  the  great 
martyr  Timothy,  when,  according  to  the  folk 
legends,  the  omens  of  a  bad  harvest  befall. 
Ecclesiastically  the  village  of  Perebrod  was  con- 
sidered auxiliary ;  that  is  to  say,  that  though 
there  was  a  church  there  it  had  no  priest  of  its 
own.  On  rare  occasions,  in  fast  time  and  on  the 
great  festivals,  it  was  served  by  the  priest  of 
the  village  of  Volchye. 

That  day  my  official  duties  took  me  to  the 
neighbouring  town,  and  I  set  off  thither  on  horse- 
back about  eight  o'clock,  in  the  chill  of  the 
morning.  A  good  time  before  I  had  bought  a 
small  cob  for  doing  my  rounds,  a  beast  six  or 
seven  years  old,  which  came  from  the  rough 
local  breed,  but  had  been  carefully  looked  after 
and  made  a  pet  of  by  the  former  owner,  the 
district  surveyor.  The  horse's  name  was 
Taranchik.  I  became  greatly  attached  to  the 
dear  beast,  with  its  strong,  thin,  chiselled  legs, 
with  its  shaggy  mane,  from  beneath  which 
peeped  fiery  eyes,  with  firm,  close-pressed  lips. 
Its  colour  was  rare  and  curious,  a  grey  mouse- 
colour  all  ол^ег  the  body  save  for  a  piebald 
rump. 

I  had  to  pass  right  through  the  village.     The 


224  THE  WITCH 

big  green  that  ran  from  the  church  to  the  inn 
was  completely  covered  by  long  rows  of  carts 
in  which  the  peasants  of  the  neighbouring 
villages  had  come  with  their  wives  and  children 
for  the  holiday — from  Volocha,  Zoulnya,  and 
Pechalovka.  People  were  roaming  about  among 
the  carts.  Notwithstanding  the  early  hour  and 
the  strict  regulations  one  could  already  see 
drunken  people  among  them.  (On  holidays  and 
at  night  Shroul,  the  former  innkeeper,  sold 
vodka  on  the  quiet.)  The  morning  was  wind- 
less and  close.  The  air  was  sultry  and  the  day 
promised  to  be  insufferably  hot.  There  was  not 
a  single  cloud  to  be  seen  in  the  glowing  sky, 
which  looked  exactly  as  though  it  were  covered 
with  a  silver  dust. 

When  I  had  done  all  my  business  in  the  little 
town  I  had  a  light  hasty  meal  of  pike,  stuffed 
and  cooked  in  the  Jewish  fashion,  washed 
down  with  some  very  inferior  muddy  beer,  and 
set  out  for  home.  As  I  passed  by  the  smithy 
I  recollected  that  Taranchik's  off  fore-shoe  had 
been  loose  for  some  time,  and  I  stopped  to  have 
him  shod.  That  took  me  another  hour  and  a 
half,  so  that  by  the  time  I  was  nearing  Perebrod 
it  was  already  between  four  and  five  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon. 

The  whole  square  was  packed  with  drunken, 
shouting  people.  The  yard  and  porch  of  the 
inn  were  literally  choked  by  jostling,  pushing 
customers ;  the  Perebrod  men  were  mixed  up 
with  strangers,  sitting  on  the  grass  and  in  the 
shade  of  the  carts.     Everywhere   were   heads 


THE  WITCH  225 

thrown  back  and  lifted  bottles.  There  was  not 
a  single  man  sober ;  and  the  general  intoxica- 
tion had  reached  the  point  at  which  the  peasant 
begins  noisily  boasting  and  exaggerating  his 
own  drunkenness,  and  all  his  movements  acquire 
a  feeble,  ponderous  freedom,  when,  for  instance, 
in  order  to  nod  '  yes  '  he  bows  his  whole  body 
down,  bends  his  knees,  and,  suddenly  losing  his 
balance  completely,  draws  back  helplessly.  The 
children  were  pushing  and  screaming  in  the  same 
place  beneath  the  horses'  legs,  while  the  horses 
munched  their  hay  unconcerned.  Elsewhere,  a 
woman  who  could  hardly  stand  on  her  feet  her- 
self dragged  her  reluctant  husband,  foully  drunk, 
home  by  the  sleeve.  ...  In  the  shade  of  a  fence 
about  twenty  men  and  women  peasants  were 
pressed  close  round  a  blind  harpist,  whose 
tremulous,  snuffling  tenor,  accompanied  by  the 
monotonous,  jingling  drone  of  his  instrument, 
rose  sharp  above  the  dull  murmur  of  the  crowd. 
At  a  distance  I  could  hear  the  familiar  words  of 
the  Little  Russian  song  : 

'  Oh,  there  rose  the  star,  the  evening  stai', 
And  stood  over  Pochah  monastery. 
Oh,  there  came  out  the  Turkish  troops 
Like  unto  a  black  cloud.' 

This  song  goes  on  to  tell  how  the  Turks,  failing 
in  their  attack  upon  the  Pochayev  monastery, 
resolved  to  take  it  by  cunning.  With  this  end 
they  sent,  as  it  were  a  gift  to  the  monastery,  a 
huge  candle  filled  with  gunpowder.  The  candle 
was  dragged  by  twelve  yoke  of  oxen,  and  the 


226  THE  WITCH 

delighted  monks  were  eager  to  light  it  before  the 
icon  of  the  Virgin  ;  but  God  did  not  allow  the 
wicked  design  to  be  accomplished. 

*  And  the  elder  dreamt  a  dream 
That  he  should  not  take  the  caudle, 
But  bear  it  away  to  the  open  field, 
And  hew  it  doAvn  with  an  axe.' 

And  the  monks  : 

*  Took  it  into  the  open  field, 
And  began  to  chop  it, 

Oh,  then  bullets  and  balls  began 
To  scatter  on  every  side.' 

It  seemed  that  the  insufferably  hot  air  was 
Avholly  saturated  with  a  disgusting  smell,  com- 
pounded of  vodka  dregs,  onions,  sheep-skins, 
strong  shag,  and  the  vapours  of  dirty  human 
bodies.  As  I  made  my  way  through  the  people, 
hardly  holding  in  Taranchik  лvho  tossed  his  head 
continually,  I  could  not  help  noticing  that  un- 
ceremonious, curious,  and  hostile  looks  were  bent 
on  me  from  every  side.  Not  a  single  man  doffed 
his  cap,  which  was  quite  unusual,  but  the  noise 
grew  still  at  my  approach.  Suddenly  from  the 
very  middle  of  the  crowd  came  a  hoarse,  drunken 
shout  which  I  could  not  clearly  distinguish  ;  but 
it  was  answered  by  a  restrained  giggle.  A 
frightened  woman's  voice  began  to  rebuke  the 
brawler. 

'  Hush,  you  fool.  .  .  .  What  are  you  shouting 
for  ?     He  '11  hear  you ' 

'  What  if  he  does  hear  ?  '  the  peasant  replied 
tauntingly.     '  What  the  hell 's  he  got  to  do  with 


THE  WITCH  227 

me  ?  Is  he  an  official  ?  He  's  only  in  the  forest 
with  his ' 

A  long,  filthy,  horrible  phrase  hung  in  the  air, 
with  a  burst  of  frantic,  roaring  laughter.  I 
quickly  turned  my  horse  round,  and  seized  the 
handle  of  my  whip  convulsively,  overwhelmed 
by  the  mad  fury  which  sees  nothing,  thinks  of 
nothing,  and  is  afraid  of  nothing.  In  a  flash,  a 
strange,  anxious,  painful  thought  went  through 
my  mind  :  '  All  this  has  happened  once  before  in 
my  life,  many  years  ago.  .  .  .  The  sun  blazed 
just  as  it  does  now.  .  .  .  The  whole  of  the  big 
square  was  overflowing  with  a  noisy,  excited 
crowd  just  as  it  is  now.  ...  I  turned  back  in  a 
paroxysm  of  wild  anger  just  in  the  same  way. 
.  .  .  But  where  was  it  ?  When  ?  When  ?  '  I 
loлvered  my  whip  and  madly  galloped  home. 

Yarmola  came  out  of  the  kitchen  at  his  leisure, 
and  said  rudely,  as  he  took  my  horse :  '  The 
bailiff  of  the  Marenov  farm  is  sitting  in  your 
room.' 

I  had  the  fancy  that  he  wanted  to  add  some- 
thing more  that  was  important  to  me  and  painful 
too  ;  I  even  imagined  that  a  fleeting  expression 
of  evil  derision  sped  over  his  face.  Intention- 
ally I  stopped  dead  in  the  doorway  and  gave 
Yarmola  a  look  of  challenge,  but  without  looking 
at  me  he  was  already  dragging  the  horse  away 
by  the  rein.  The  horse's  head  was  stretched 
forward,  and  it  stepped  delicately. 

In  my  room  I  found  the  agent  of  the  neigh- 
bouring estate,  Nikita  Nazarich  Mishtchenko. 
He  was  dressed  in  a  grey  jacket  with  large  ginger 


228  THE  WITCH 

checks,  in  narrow  cornflower  blue  trousers,  and 
a  fiery  red  necktie.  There  was  a  deep  parting 
down  the  middle  of  his  hair,  which  shone  with 
pomade,  and  from  the  whole  of  him  exuded 
the  scent  of  Persian  lilac.  When  he  saw  me 
he  jumped  up  from  his  chair  and  began  to 
curtsy,  not  bowing,  but  somehow  breaking  at  the 
waist,  and  at  the  same  time  unsheathing  the 
pale  gums  of  both  his  jaws. 

'  Extremely  delighted  to  have  the  honour,' 
Nikita  Nazarich  jabbered  courteously.  '  Very 
glad  indeed  to  see  you.  I  've  been  waiting  for 
you  here  ever  since  the  service.  I  hadn't  seen 
you  for  so  long  that  I  was  bored,  and  missed  you 
very  much.  Why  is  it  you  never  look  us  up  ? 
The  girls  in  Stiepany  laugh  at  you  nowadays.' 

Suddenly  he  was  seized  by  an  instantaneous 
recollection,  and  broke  out  into  an  irresistible 
giggle. 

'  What  fun  it  was  to-day ! '  he  cried  out, 
choking  and  chuckling.  '  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha.  .  .  . 
I  fairly  split  my  sides  with  laughing.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ?  What  fun  ?  '  I 
asked  without  troubling  to  conceal  my  annoy- 
ance. 

'  There  was  a  row  after  service,'  Nikita 
Nazarich  continued,  punctuating  his  words  with 
volleys  of  laughter.  '  The  Perebrod  girls.  .  .  . 
No,  by  God,  I  really  can't.  .  .  .  The  Perebrod 
girls  caught  a  witch  in  the  market-place  here. 
Of  course,  it 's  only  their  peasant  ignorance  that 
makes  them  think  she 's  a  witch.  .  .  .  But 
they  did  give  her  a  thrashing  !     They  were  going 


THE  WITCH  229 

to  tar  her  all  over,  but  somehow  she  slipped  from 
them  and  got  away ' 

A  ghastly  surmise  entered  my  head.  I  rushed 
towards  the  bailiff,  and  forgetting  myself  com- 
pletely in  my  agitation,  gripped  him  violently 
by  the  shoulders. 

'  What 's  that  you  say  ?  '  I  cried  in  a  furious 
voice.  '  Stop  your  giggling,  damn  you  ?  Who  's 
this  witch  you  're  talking  about  ?  ' 

Instantly  his  laughing  ceased,  and  he  stared 
with  his  round,  frightened  eyes.  .  .  . 

'  I  .  .  .  I  .  .  .  really  don't  know,'  he  began 
to  stammer  in  confusion.  '  I  believe  it  was 
some  one  called  Samoilikha  .  .  .  Manuilikha, 
was  it  ?  .  .  .  Yes,  that 's  it,  the  daughter  of 
some  one  called  Manuiliklia.  .  .  .  The  peasants 
луеге  shouting  something  or  other,  but  honestly 
I  don't  remember  what  it  was.' 

I  made  him  tell  me  everything  he  had  seen  and 
heard  in  order.  He  told  his  tale  absurdly,  in- 
coherently, confusing  details,  and  every  moment 
I  interrupted  him  with  impatient  questions  and 
exclamations,  almost  with  abuse.  I  could 
understand  very  little  from  his  story,  and  it  was 
only  two  months  later  that  I  could  piece  to- 
gether the  real  order  of  the  vile  happening  from 
the  words  of  an  eyewitness,  the  wife  of  the 
forester  of  the  Crown  Lands,  who  was  also  pre- 
sent at  Mass  that  day. 

I  had  not  been  deceived  by  my  foreboding. 
Olyessia  had  broken  down  her  fears  and  come  to 
church.  Though  she  did  not  reach  the  church 
until  the  service  was  half  done,  and  stopped  in 


280  THE  WITCH 

the  entry,  her  arrival  was  instantly  noticed  by 
every  peasant  in  church.  All  through  the  ser- 
vice the  women  were  whispering  to  each  other 
and  glancing  behind  them. 

However  Olyessia  had  strength  enough  in 
herself  to  stand  out  the  Mass  right  to  the  end. 
Perhaps  she  did  not  understand  the  real  meaning 
of  those  hostile  looks  ;  perhaps  she  despised 
them  out  of  pride.  But  when  she  came  out  of 
the  church  she  could  get  no  farther  than  the 
church  fence  before  she  was  surrounded  by  a 
crowd  of  women,  which  grew  larger  and  larger 
every  minute,  and  pressed  closer  and  closer  upon 
Olyessia.  At  first  they  only  examined  the  help- 
less girl  in  silence  and  without  ceremony,  while 
she  looked  everywhere  about  her  in  fright. 
Then  there  came  a  shower  of  rude  insults,  hard 
words,  abuse,  accompanied  by  roars  of  laughter  ; 
then  all  separate  words  disappeared  into  one 
general  piercing  women's  shriek,  wherein  every- 
thing was  confused  and  the  nerves  of  the  agitated 
crowd  became  more  and  more  tightly  strung. 
Several  times  Olyessia  attempted  to  pass  through 
this  horrible  living  ring,  but  every  time  she  was 
pushed  back  into  the  middle  again.  Suddenly 
the  squeaking  voice  of  some  old  hag  shrieked 
from  somewhere  at  the  back  of  the  crowd  : 
'  Smear  the  slut  with  tar — tar  the  slut ! ' 
(Everybody  knows  that  in  Little  Russia  to 
smear  with  tar  even  the  gates  of  the  house  where 
a  girl  lives  is  considered  as  a  mark  of  the  greatest, 
the  most  indelible,  disgrace  to  her.)  Almost  the 
same  second  a  pot  of  tar  and  a  brush  appeared 


THE  WITCH  231 

over  the  heads  of  the  raging  furies,  passed  from 
hand  to  hand. 

Then  Olyessia,  seized  by  a  paroxysm  of  anger, 
horror  and  despair,  rushed  on  the  nearest  of  her 
tormentors  with  such  impetuous  force  that  she 
was  thrown  to  the  ground.  Immediately  a 
fight  burst  forth,  and  innumerable  bodies  were 
confused  in  one  general  shouting  mass.  But 
by  some  miracle  Olyessia  succeeded  in  slipping 
out  from  among  the  tangle,  and  rushed  head- 
long down  the  road,  without  her  shawl,  her 
clothes  torn  to  ribbons,  through  which  in  many 
places  her  naked  body  could  be  seen.  Stones, 
vile  abuse,  laughter  and  shouts  sped  after  her. 
.  .  .  When  she  had  run  fifty  paces  Olyessia 
stopped,  turned  her  pale,  scratched,  bleeding 
face  to  the  crowd,  and  said  so  loud  that  each 
word  could  be  heard  all  through  the  square : 
'  Very  well.  .  .  .  You  will  remember  this.  You 
луШ  weep  your  fill  for  this,  all  of  you  ! ' 

The  eyewitness  of  the  happening  told  me  after- 
wards that  this  threat  was  pronounced  with  such 
passionate  hatred,  in  such  a  determined  tone  of 
prophecy,  that  for  a  moment  the  whole  crowd 
was  as  it  were  benumbed ;  but  only  for  a 
moment,  because  a  fresh  explosion  of  curses  was 
heard  immediately. 

I  say  again  that  it  was  not  till  long  after  that 
I  came  to  know  many  details  of  this  story.  I 
had  neither  strength  nor  patience  to  hear 
Mishtchenko's  tale  to  the  end.  I  suddenly  re- 
member that  Yarmola  had  probably  not  had 
time  yet  to  unsaddle  my  horse,  and  without 


232  THE  WITCH 

a  word  to  the  astounded  bailiff,  I  rushed  out 
into  the  yard.  Yarmola  was  still  leading 
Taranchik  along  by  the  fence.  I  quickly  slipped 
the  bridle  on,  tightened  the  girths,  and  raced 
away  into  the  forest  by  circuitous  paths  in 
order  to  avoid  having  to  pass  through  the 
drunken  crowd  again. 


THE  WITCH  233 


XIII 

I  CANNOT  possibly  describe  my  state  during  that 
wild  gallop.  There  were  moments  when  I 
utterly  forgot  where  and  why  I  was  riding  ; 
only  a  dim  consciousness  remained  that  some- 
thing irreparable  had  happened,  something 
grotesque  and  horrible ;  a  consciousness  like 
the  heavy,  causeless  anxiety  which  will  possess 
a  person  in  a  feverish  nightmare.  And  all  the 
while  strangely  rang  in  my  head,  in  time  with  the 
horse's  hoof-beat,  the  snuffling,  broken  voice  of 
the  harpist : 

'  Oh,  there  came  out  the  Turkish  troops 
Like  unto  a  black  cloud.' 

When  I  reached  the  narrow  footpath  that 
led  straight  to  Manuilikha's  hut,  I  jumped  off 
Taranchik  and  led  him  by  the  rein.  By  the 
edge  of  the  saddle  pads,  and  wherever  the  girths 
and  bridle  touched  him,  stood  out  white  lumps 
of  thick  froth.  From  the  violent  heat  of  the 
day  and  the  speed  of  my  gallop,  the  blood  roared 
in  my  head  as  though  forced  by  some  immense, 
unceasing  pump. 

I  tied  my  horse  to  the  wattle  hedge  and 
entered  the  hut.  At  first  I  thought  that  Olyessia 
was  not  there,  and  my  heart  and  lips  were 
chilled  with  fear ;  but  a  minute  later  I  saw  her 
lying  on  the  bed  with  her  face  to  the  wall  and 


234  THE  WITCH 

her  head  hidden  in  the  pillows.  She  did  not 
even  turn  at  the  noise  of  the  opening  door. 

Manuilikha  was  squatting  on  the  floor  by  her 
side.  When  she  saw  me  she  rose  with  effort  to 
her  feet  and  shook  her  hand  at  me. 

'  Sh  !  Don't  make  a  noise,  curse  you  ! '  she 
said  in  a  menacing  whisper,  coming  close  to  me. 
She  glanced  with  her  cold,  faded  eyes  straight 
into  mine  and  hissed  malignantly  :  '  Yes  ! 
You  've  done  that  beautifully,  my  darling  ! ' 

'  Look  here,  granny  ! '  I  answered  sternly. 
'  This  isn't  the  time  to  settle  our  account  and 
abuse  each  other.  What 's  the  matter  with 
Olyessia  ?  ' 

'  Sh.  .  .  .  Sh  !  Olyessia 's  lying  there  un- 
conscious ;  that 's  what 's  the  matter  with 
Olyessia  !  If  you  hadn't  poked  your  nose  in 
where  you  had  no  business,  and  talked  a  pack  of 
nonsense  to  the  girl,  nothing  wrong  would  have 
happened.  And  I  just  looked  on  and  indulged 
it,  blind  fool  that  I  am.  .  .  .  But  my  heart 
scented  misfortune.  ...  It  scented  misfortune 
from  the  very  first  day  when  you  broke  into  our 
house,  almost  by  force.  Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  it  wasn't  you  who  persuaded  her  to  go 
trailing  off  to  church  ? '  Suddenly  the  old 
woman  looked  at  me  with  her  face  distorted 
with  hatred.  '  Wasn't  it  you,  you  cursed 
gentleman  !  Don't  lie — don't  put  me  off  with 
your  cunning  tricks,  you  shameless  hound ! 
What  did  you  go  enticing  her  to  church  for  ?  ' 

'  I  didn't  entice  her,  granny.  ...  I  give  you 
my  word.     She  wanted  to,  herself.' 


THE  WITCH  235 

'  Ah,  my  grief,  my  misfortune  ! '  Manuiliklia 
clasped  her  hands.  '  She  came  running  back 
from  there — with  no  face  left  at  all,  and  all  her 
skirt  in  rags  .  .  .  without  a  shawl  to  her  head. 
.  .  .  She  tells  me  how  it  happened  .  .  .  then 
she  laughs,  or  cries.  .  .  .  Just  possessed  simply. 
.  .  .  She  lay  on  the  bed  .  .  .  weeping  all  the 
while,  and  then  I  saw  that  she  'd  fallen  into  a 
sleep,  I  thought.  .  .  .  And  I  was  happy  like  an 
old  fool.  "  She  '11  sleep  it  all  away  now,  for 
good,"  I  thought.  I  saw  her  hand  hanging 
down,  and  I  thought  I  'd  better  put  it  right,  or 
it  would  swell.  ...  I  felt  for  the  darling's  hand 
and  it  was  burning,  blazing.  .  .  .  That  meant 
the  fever  had  begun.  .  .  .  For  an  hour  she  never 
stopped  speaking,  fast,  and  so  pitifully.  .  .  . 
She  only  stopped  this  very  minute,  a  moment 
ago.  .  .  .  What  have  you  done  ?  What  have 
you  done  to  her  ?  ' 

Suddenly  her  brown  face  writhed  into  a 
monstrous,  disgusting  grimace  of  лveeping.  Her 
lips  tightened  and  drooped  at  the  corners  :  all 
the  muscles  of  her  face  stiffened  and  trembled, 
her  eyelids  lifted  and  wrinkled  her  forehead 
into  deep  folds,  and  from  her  eyes  came  a  quick 
rain  of  big  tears,  big  as  peas.  She  held  her  head 
in  her  hands,  and  with  her  elbows  on  the  table 
began  to  rock  her  whole  body  to  and  fro  and  to 
whine  in  a  low,  drawn-out  voice. 

'  My  little  daught-er !  My  darling  grand- 
daught-er  !     Oh,  it  is  so  hard  for  me,  so  bit-te-r ! ' 

'Don't  roar,  you  old  fool ! '  I  coarsely  broke  in 
on  Manuilikha.     '  You  '11  wake  her  ! ' 


236  THE  WITCH 

The  old  woman  kept  silence,  but  with  the  same 
terrible  contortion  of  her  face  she  went  on 
swinging  to  and  fro,  while  the  big  tears  splashed 
on  to  the  table.  .  .  .  About  ten  minutes  passed 
in  this  way.  I  sat  by  Manuilikha's  side  and 
anxiously  listened  to  a  fly  knocking  against  the 
window-pane  with  a  broken  yet  monotonous 
buzzing.  .  .  . 

'  Granny  ! '  suddenly  a  faint,  barely  audible 
voice  came  from  Olyessia :  '  Granny,  who  's 
here  ?  ' 

Manuilikha  hastily  hobbled  to  the  bed,  and 
straightway  began  to  whine  once  more. 

'  Oh,  my  granddaughter,  my  own  !  Oh,  it  is 
so  hard  for  me,  so  bit-t-e-r  ! ' 

'  Ah,  stop,  granny,  stop  ! '  Olyessia  said  with 
complaining  entreaty  and  suffering  in  her  voice. 
'  Who  's  sitting  here  ?  ' 

Cautiously,  I  approached  the  bed  on  tip-toe, 
with  the  awkward,  guilty  conscience  of  my  own 
gross  health  which  one  always  feels  by  a  sick 
bed. 

'  It 's  me,  Olyessia,'  I  said,  lowering  my  voice. 
'  I  've  just  come  from  the  village  on  horseback. 
...  I  was  in  the  town  all  the  morning.  .  .  . 
You  're  ill,  Olyessia  ?  ' 

Without  moving  her  face  from  the  pillow,  she 
stretched  out  her  bare  hand,  as  though  she  were 
feeling  for  something  in  the  air.  I  understood 
the  movement  and  took  her  hot  hand  into  mine. 
Two  huge  blue  marks,  one  on  the  wrist,  the  other 
above  the  elbow,  stood  out  sharp  on  her  tender 
white  skin. 


THE  WITCH  237 

'  My  darling,'  Olyessia  began  to  speak  slowly, 
with  difficulty  separating  one  word  from  another. 
*  I  want  ...  to  look  at  you  .  .  .  but  I  cannot. 
.  .  .  They  've  maimed  me.  .  .  .  All  over,  my 
whole  body.  .  .  .  You  remember.  .  .  .  You 
loved  my  face,  so  much.  .  .  .  You  loved  it, 
darling,  didn't  you  ?  ...  It  made  me  so  glad, 
always.  .  .  .  And  now  it  will  disgust  you  .  .  . 
even  to  look  at  me.  .  .  .  That  is  why  ...  I  do 
not  want ' 

'  Forgive  me,  Olyessia  !  '  I  whispered,  bending 
down  to  her  ear. 

Her  burning  hand  pressed  mine  hard  and  held 
it  long. 

'  But  what  are  you  saying  ?  Why  should  I 
forgive  you,  my  darling  ?  Aren't  you  ashamed 
to  think  of  it  even  ?  How  could  it  be  j^ur 
fault  ?  It 's  all  my  own — stupid  me.  .  .  .  Why 
did  I  go  ?  .  .  .  No,  my  precious,  don't  blame 
yourself.  .  .  .' 

'  Olyessia,  will  you  let  me.  .  .  .  Promise  me 
first,  that  you  will ' 

'  I  '11  promise,  darling  .  .  .  anything  you 
want ' 

'  Let  me  send  for  a  doctor.  ...  I  implore 
you.  .  .  .  Well,  you  needn't  do  anything  he 
tells  you,  if  you  like.  .  .  .  But  say  "  yes  " — 
only  for  my  sake,  Olyessia.' 

'  Oh  .  .  .  you  've  caught  me  in  a  terrible 
trap  !  No,  you  'd  better  let  me  free  of  my 
promise.  Even  if  I  were  really  ill,  dying — I 
wouldn't  let  the  doctor  come  near  me.  And  am 
I  ill  now  ?     It 's  only  fright  that  brought  it  on  ; 


238  THE  WITCH 

it  луШ  go  off  when  the  evening  comes.  If  it 
doesn't,  granny  will  give  an  infusion  of  lilies  or 
make  some  raspberry-tea.  What 's  the  good 
of  the  doctor  ?  You — you  're  my  best  doctor. 
You  've  only  just  come — and  I  feel  better 
already.  .  .  .  Ah,  there  's  only  one  thing  wrong, 
I  want  to  look  at  you,  even  if  it  were  only  with 
one  eye,  but  I  'm  afraid.  .  .  .' 

With  a  gentle  effort  I  lifted  Olyessia's  head 
from  the  pillow.  Her  face  blazed  with  feverish 
redness ;  her  dark  eyes  shone  unnaturally 
bright ;  her  dry  lips  trembled  nervously.  Long, 
red  scratches  ploughed  her  forehead,  cheeks,  and 
neck.  There  were  dark  bruises  on  her  forehead 
and  under  her  eyes. 

'  Don't  look  at  me.  ...  I  implore  you.  .  .  . 
I  'm  ugly  now,'  Olyessia  besought  me  in  a 
whisper,  trying  to  cover  my  eyes  with  her  hand. 

My  heart  overflowed  with  pity.  I  nestled 
my  lips  on  Olyessia's  hand,  which  lay  motionless 
on  the  blanket,  and  began  to  cover  it  with  long, 
quiet  kisses.  In  the  time  before  I  used  to  kiss 
her  hands  too,  but  she  always  would  draw  them 
away  from  me  in  hasty,  bashful  fright.  But 
now  she  made  no  resistance  to  my  caress  and 
with  her  other  hand  she  gently  smoothed  my 
hair. 

'  You  know  it  all  ?  '  she  asked  in  a  whisper. 

I  bent  my  head  in  silence.  It  is  true  I  had  not 
understood  everything  from  Nikita  Nazarich's 
story.  Only  I  did  not  want  Olyessia  to  be 
agitated  by  having  to  recall  the  events  of  the 
morning.     Suddenly    a    wave    of    irrepressible 


THE  WITCH  239 

fury  overwhelmed  me  at  the  idea  of  the  outrage 
to  which  she  had  been  subjected. 

'  Oh,  why  wasn't  I  there  ! '  I  cried,  holding 
myself  straight  and  clenching  my  fists.  '  I 
would  ...  I  would  have ' 

'  Well,  don't  worry  .  .  .  don't  worry.  .  .  . 
Don't  be  angry,  darling.  .  .  .'  Olyessia  in- 
terrupted me  meekly. 

I  could  not  keep  back  the  tears  any  more 
which  had  been  choking  my  throat  and  burning 
my  eyes.  I  pressed  my  face  close  to  Olyessia's 
shoulder,  and  I  began  to  cry  bitterly,  silently, 
trembling  all  over  my  body. 

'  You  are  crying  ?  You  are  crying  ?  '  There 
was  surprise,  tenderness,  and  compassion  in  her 
voice.  '  My  darling  .  .  .  don't  .  .  .  please 
don't.  .  .  .  Don't  torment  yourself,  my  darling. 
...  I  feel  so  happy  near  you.  .  .  .  Don't  let 
us  cry  while  we  are  together.  Let  us  be  happy 
for  the  last  days,  then  it  won't  be  so  hard  for 
us  to  part.' 

I  raised  my  head  in  amazement.  A  vague 
presentiment  began  slowly  to  press  upon  my 
heart. 

'  The  last  days,  Olyessia  ?  What  do  you 
mean — ^the  last  ?     Why  should  we  part  ?  ' 

Olyessia  shut  her  eyes  and  kept  silence  for 
some  seconds.  '  We  must  part,  Vanichka,'  she 
said  resolutely.  '  When  I  'm  a  httle  bit  better, 
we  '11  go  away  from  here,  granny  and  I.  We 
must  not  stay  here  any  longer.' 

*  Are  you  afraid  of  anything  ?  ' 

'  No,  my  darling,  I  'm  not  afraid  of  anything, 


240  THE  WITCH 

if  it  comes  to  that.  But  why  should  I  tempt 
people  into  mischief  ?  Perhaps  you  don't  know. 
.  .  .  Over  there — in  Perebrod.  ...  I  was  so 
angry  and  ashamed  that  I  threatened  them.  .  .  . 
And  now  if  anything  happens,  they  will  inform 
on  us.  If  the  cattle  begin  to  die  or  a  hut  is  set 
on  fire — we  shall  be  the  guilty  ones.  Granny  ' — 
she  turned  to  Manuilikha,  raising  her  voice — 
'  isn't  it  true  what  I  say  ?  ' 

'  What  did  you  say,  little  granddaughter  ?  I 
confess  I  didn't  hear,'  the  old  woman  mumbled, 
coming  closer  and  putting  her  hand  to  her  ear. 

'  I  said  that  whatever  misfortune  happens  in 
Perebrod  now  they  '11  put  all  the  blame  on  us.' 

'  That 's  true,  that 's  true,  Olyessia — they  '11 
throw  everything  on  us,  the  miserable  wretches. 
.  .  .  We  are  no  dwellers  in  this  world.  They 
will  destroy  us  both,  destroy  us  utterly,  the 
cursed.  .  .  .  Besides,  how  did  they  drive  me 
out  of  the  village  ?  .  .  .  Why  ?  .  .  .  Wasn't  it 
just  the  same  ?  I  threatened  them  .  .  .  just 
out  of  vexation,  too.  .  .  .  One  stupid  fool  of  a 
woman — and  lo  and  behold  her  child  died.  It 
was  no  fault  of  mine  at  all — not  a  dream  of  my 
dreaming  or  a  spirit  of  my  calling  ;  but  they 
nearly  killed  me  all  the  same,  the  devils.  .  .  . 
They  began  to  stone  me.  ...  I  ran  away  and 
only  just  managed  to  protect  you — you  were  a 
little  tiny  child  then.  .  .  .  Well,  I  thought,  it 
doesn't  matter  if  they  give  it  to  me,  but  why 
should  an  innocent  child  be  injured.  .  .  .  No, 
it  all  comes  to  the  same  thing — they  're  savages, 
a  dirty  lot  of  gallows' -birds.' 


THE  WITCH  241 

'  But  where  will  you  go  ?  You  haven't  any 
relations  or  friends  anywhere.  .  .  .  Finally,  you '11 
have  to  have  money  to  settle  in  a  new  place.' 

'  We  '11  make  shift  somehow,'  Olyessia  said 
negligently.  '  There  '11  be  money  as  well. 
Granny  has  saved  something.' 

'  Money  as  well ! '  the  old  луотап  echoed 
angrily,  going  away  from  the  bed.  '  Widows' 
mites,  washed  in  tears ' 

'  Olyessia.  .  .  .  What 's  to  become  of  me  ? 
You  don't  want  even  to  think  of  me  !  '  I  ex- 
claimed, feeling  a  bitter,  sick,  ugly  reproach 
against  Olyessia  rising  within  me. 

She  raised  herself  a  little,  and,  careless  of  her 
grandmother's  presence,  took  my  head  into 
her  hands,  and  kissed  me  on  the  cheeks  and  fore- 
head several  times  in  succession. 

'  I  think  of  you  most  of  all,  my  own  !  Only 
.  .  .  you  see  ...  it 's  not  our  fate  to  be  to- 
gether .  .  .  that  is  it.  .  .  .  You  remember,  I 
spread  out  the  cards  for  you  ?  Everything 
happened  as  they  foretold.  It  means  that  Fate 
does  not  will  our  happiness.  ...  If  it  were  not 
for  this,  do  you  think  I  would  be  frightened  of 
anything  ?  ' 

'  Olyessia,  you  're  talking  of  fate  again  !  ' 
I  cried  impatiently.  '  I  don't  want  to  believe 
in  it  .  .  .  and  I  never  Avill  believe.' 

'  Oh  no,  no,  no !  .  .  .  Don't  say  that.' 
Olyessia  began  in  a  frightened  whisper.  '  It 's 
not  for  me  I  'm  afraid,  but  you.  No  you  'd 
better  not  start  us  talking  about  it.' 

In  vain  I  tried  to  dissuade  Olvessia ;    in  vain 


242  THE  WITCH 

I  painted  glowing  pictures  of  unbroken  happiness 
for  her,  which  neither  curious  fate  nor  ugly, 
wicked  people  could  disturb.  Olyessia  only 
kissed  my  hands  and  shook  her  head. 

'  No  .  .  .  no  .  .  .  no.  ...  I  know.  I  see,' 
she  repeated  persistently.  '  There 's  nothing 
but  sorrow  awaits  us  .  .  .  nothing  .  .  . 
nothing.' 

Disconcerted  and  baffled  by  this  superstitious 
obstinacy,  I  asked  at  length,  '  At  least  you  will 
let  me  know  the  day  you  are  going  away  ?  ' 

Olyessia  pondered.  Suddenly  the  shadow  of 
a  smile  flickered  over  her  lips.  '  I  '11  tell  you  a 
little  story  for  that.  Once  upon  a  time  a  wolf 
was  running  through  the  forest  when  he  saw  a 
little  hare  and  said  to  him  :  "  Hi,  you  hare  ! 
I  '11  eat  you  !  "  The  hare  began  to  implore  him : 
"  Have  mercy  on  me.  I  want  to  live.  I  have 
little  children  at  home."  The  wolf  did  not  agree, 
so  the  hare  said  :  "  Well,  let  me  live  another 
three  days  in  the  world  ;  then  you  can  eat  me, 
but  still  I  shall  feel  it  easier  to  die."  The  wolf 
gave  him  his  three  days.  He  didn't  eat  him, 
but  only  kept  a  watch  on  him.  One  day  passed, 
then  the  second,  and  at  last  the  third  was  coming 
to  an  end.  "  Well,  get  ready  now,"  said  the 
wolf,  "  I  'm  going  to  eat  you  at  once."  Then 
my  hare  began  to  weep  with  bitter  tears.  "  Oh, 
why  did  you  give  me  those  three  days,  wolf  ? 
It  would  have  been  far  better  if  you  had  eaten 
the  first  moment  that  you  saw  me.  The  whole 
of  these  three  days  it  hasn't  been  life  for  me,  but 
torment." 


THE  WITCH  243 

'  Darling,  that  little  hare  spoke  the  truth. 
Don't  you  think  so  ?  ' 

I  was  silent,  distraught  by  an  anxious  fore- 
boding of  the  loneliness  that  threatened  me. 
Olyessia  suddenly  raised  herself  and  sat  up  in 
bed.  Her  face  grew  serious  at  once.  '  Listen, 
Vanya  .  .  .'  she  said  slowly.  '  Tell  me,  were 
you  happy  Avhile  you  were  with  me  ?  Did  you 
feel  that  it  was  good  ?  ' 

'  Olyessia  !     Can  you  still  ask  ?  ' 
'  Wait.  .  .  .  Did  you  regret  having  met  me  ? 
Were  you  thinking  of  another  woman  while  you 
were  with  me  ?  ' 

'  Never  for  one  single  second  !  Not  only  when 
I  was  with  you,  but  when  I  was  alone,  I  never 
had  a  thought  for  any  one  but  you.' 

'  Were  you  jealous  of  me  ?     Were  you  ever 
angry    Avith    me  ?     Were    you    ever    wretched 
when  you  were  with  me  ?  ' 
'  Never,  Olyessia,  never  ! ' 
She  put  both  her  hands  upon  my  shoulders, 
and  looked  into  my  eyes  with  love  indescribable. 
'  Then  I  tell  you,  my  darling,  that  you  will 
never  think  evilly  or  sadly  of  me  when  you  re- 
member me,'  she  said  with  conviction,  as  though 
she  were  reading  the  future  in  my  eyes.     '  When 
we  part  you  will  be  miserable,  terribly  miserable. 
.  .  .  You  will  cry,  you  will  not  find  a  place  to 
rest  anywhere.     And  then  everything  will  pass 
and  fade  away,  and  you  ^vill  think  of  me  without 
sorrow,  easily  and  happily.' 

She  let  her  head  fall  back  on  the  pillows  again 
and  whispered  in  a  feeble  voice : 


244  THE  WITCH 

'  Now  go,  my  darling.  ...  Go  home,  my 
precious.  ...  I  am  a  little  bit  tired.  No, 
wait  .  .  .  kiss  me.  .  .  .  Don't  be  frightened  of 
granny  .  .  .  she  won't  mind.  You  don't  mind, 
do  you,  granny  ?  ' 

'  Say  good-bye.  Part,  as  you  should,'  the  old 
woman  muttered  in  discontent.  .  .  .  '  Why 
should  you  want  to  hide  from  me  ?  I  've  known 
it  a  long  while.' 

'  Kiss  me  here  and  here  .  .  .  and  here,' 
Olyessia  said,  touching  her  eyes,  cheeks  and 
mouth  with  her  fingers. 

'  Olyessia,  you  're  saying  good-bye  to  me  as 
though  we  shall  never  see  each  other  again  ! '  I 
cried  in  terror. 

'  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know,  my  darling.  I 
don't  know  anything.  Now,  go  and  God  be  with 
you.  No,  wait  .  .  .  just  one  little  moment  more. 
.  .  .  Bend  down  to  me.  .  .  .  You  know  what 
I  regret  ?  '  she  began  to  whisper,  touching  my 
cheeks  with  her  lips.  '  That  you  haven't  given 
me  a  child.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  happy  I  should  be  !  ' 

I  went  out  into  the  passage,  escorted  by 
Manuilikha.  Half  the  heaven  was  covered  by  a 
black  cloud  with  sharp,  curly  edges,  but  the  sun 
was  still  shining,  bending  to  the  east.  There 
was  something  ominous  in  this  mixing  of  light 
and  oncoming  darkness.  The  old  woman  looked 
up,  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand  as  it  were  an 
umbrella,  and  shook  her  head  meaningly. 

'  There  '11  be  a  thunderstorm  over  Perebrod, 
to-day,'  she  said  with  conviction.  '  And  hail  as 
well,  most  likely.' 


THE  WITCH  245 


XIV 

I  HAD  almost  reached  Perebrod  when  a  sudden 
whirlwind  rose,  driving  columns  of  dust  before 
it  on  the  road.  The  first  heavy,  scattered  drops 
of  rain  began  to  fall. 

Manuiliklia  was  not  mistaken.  The  storm 
which  had  been  gathering  all  through  the  in- 
sufferable heat  of  the  day  burst  with  extraordin- 
ary force  over  Perebrod.  The  lightning  flashed 
almost  without  intermission,  and  the  window 
panes  of  my  room  trembled  and  rang  with  the 
roll  of  the  thunder.  At  about  eight  o'clock  in 
the  evening  the  storm  abated  for  some  minutes, 
but  only  to  begin  again  with  new  exasperation. 
Suddenly  something  poured  down  on  to  the  roof 
with  a  deafening  crash,  and  on  to  the  walls  of 
the  old  house.  I  rushed  to  the  window.  Huge 
hailstones,  as  big  as  a  walnut,  were  falling 
furiously  on  to  the  earth  and  bouncing  high  in 
the  air  again.  I  glanced  at  the  mulberry  bush 
which  grew  against  the  house.  It  stood  quite 
bare  ;  every  leaf  had  been  beaten  off  by  the 
blows  of  the  awful  hail.  Beneath  the  window 
appeared  Yarmola's  figure,  hardly  visible  in  the 
darkness.  He  had  covered  his  head  in  his  sheep- 
skin and  run  out  of  the  kitchen  to  close  the 
shutters.  But  he  was  too  late.  A  huge  piece  of 
ice  suddenly  struck  one  of  the  windows  with  such 


246  THE  WITCH 

force  that  it  was  smashed,  and  the  tinkling 
spHnters  of  glass  were  scattered  over  the  floor 
of  the  room. 

A  fatigue  came  over  me,  and  I  lay  down  on  the 
bed  in  my  clothes.  I  thought  I  would  never  be 
able  to  sleep  at  all  that  night,  but  would  toss 
from  side  to  side  in  impotent  anguish  until  the 
morning.  So  I  decided  it  would  be  better  not  to 
undress  ;  later  I  might  be  able  to  tire  myself  if 
only  a  little  by  walking  up  and  down  the  room, 
over  and  over  again.  But  a  strange  thing 
happened  to  me.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had 
shut  my  eyes  only  a  second  ;  but  when  I  opened 
them,  long,  bright  sunbeams  were  already 
stretching  through  the  chinks  of  the  shutters, 
and  innumerable  motes  of  golden  dust  were 
turning  round  and  round  within  them. 

Yarmola  was  standing  over  my  bed.  On  his 
face  was  written  stern  anxiety  and  impatient 
expectation.  Probably  he  had  been  waiting 
long  for  me  to  wake. 

'  Sir,'  he  said  in  a  dull  voice,  in  which  one 
could  distinguish  his  uneasiness.  '  You  'd  better 
go  away  from  here,  sir.' 

I  put  my  feet  out  of  bed  and  looked  at 
Yarmola  with  amazement.  '  Better  go  away  ? 
Where  to  ?     Why  ?     You  're  mad,  surely.' 

'  No,  I  'm  not  mad,'  Yarmola  snarled.  '  You 
didn't  hear  what  happened  through  yesterday's 
hail  ?  Half  the  corn  of  the  village  is  like  as 
though  it  had  been  trodden  underfoot — cripple 
Maxim's,  the  Goat's,  old  Addlepate's,  the 
brothers  Prokopchuk's,  Gordi  Olefir's.  .  .  .  She 


THE  WITCH  247 

put  the  mischief  on  us,  the  devilish  witch.  .  .  . 
May  she  rot  in  hell ! ' 

In  an  instant  I  remember  what  had  happened 
yesterday,  the  threat  Olyessia  had  made  by  the 
church,  and  her  apprehensions. 

'  And  all  the  village  is  in  a  riot  now,'  Yarmola 
continued.  '  They  got  drunk  first  thing  in 
the  morning,  and  now  they  're  fighting.  .  .  . 
They  've  got  something  bad  to  say  of  you,  too, 
sir.  .  .  .  You  know  what  our  people  are  like  ? 
...  If  they  do  something  to  the  witches,  that 
won't  matter,  it  '11  serve  'em  to  rights  ;  but  you, 
sir — I  '11  just  say  this  one  word  of  warning, 
you  get  out  of  here  as  quick  as  you  can.' 

So  Olyessia' s  fears  had  come  true.  I  must  let 
her  know  at  once  of  the  danger  that  threatened 
her  and  Manuilikha.  I  got  up  hurriedly,  rinsed 
my  face  without  ever  standing  still,  and  in  half 
an  hour  I  was  riding  full  gallof)  towards  the 
Devil's  Corner. 

The  nearer  I  came  to  the  chicken-legged  hut 
the  stronger  grew  the  vague  melancholy  anxiety 
within  me.  I  said  to  myself  that  in  a  moment 
a  new,  unexpected  misfortune  луоиИ  certainly 
befall  me. 

I  almost  galloped  over  the  narrow  footpath 
that  wound  up  the  sandy  hill.  The  windows  of 
the  hut  were  open,  the  door  wide. 

'  My  God,  what  has  happened  ?  '  I  whispered, 
and  my  heart  sank  as  I  entered  the  passage. 

The  hut  was  empty.  Over  it  all  reigned  the 
sad,  dirty  disorder  that  always  remains  after  a 
hurried  departure.     Heaps  of  dust  and  rags  lay 


248  THE  WITCH 

about  the  floor,  and  the  wooden  frame  of  a  bed 
stood  in  the  corner. 

My  heart  was  utterly  sad,  overflowing  with 
tears  ;  I  wanted  to  get  out  of  the  hut  already, 
when  my  eye  was  caught  by  something  bright, 
hung,  as  if  on  purpose,  in  a  corner  of  the  window- 
frame.  It  was  a  string  of  the  cheap  red  beads 
which  they  call  '  corals  '  in  Polyessie — the  only 
thing  that  remained  to  me  in  memory  of  Olyessia 
and  her  tender,  great-hearted  love. 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  His  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press,  Scotland 


